


Hallowed Hearts

by KariAnn1222



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friendship, Romance, Teen Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:10:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 69,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KariAnn1222/pseuds/KariAnn1222
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>COMPLETE! What if Ron and Hermione had given into their passion sooner rather than later, resulting in an unforeseen complication that could very well compromise the hunt for Voldemort's Horcruxes? Deathly Hallows subplot, interweaves with canon. **WINNER! Best Romance and 3rd Place Best Hermione in the 2012 Romione Awards!**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Silent Promise

**Author's Note:**

> Author's notes:This is a series of Ron/Hermione-based missing/alternate moments, some parts longer than others, that I wrote as I was reading Deathly Hallows for the third time. I wrote it for my own personal gratification as a result of not being able to find many satisfying missing moments pieces, and I'm posting solely as a gift to readers who might enjoy reading such a storyline.
> 
> Please note that while this runs parallel to the canon established in DH, an AU plot point of my own creation will branch off from the established canon. If you're not a fan of pregnancy storylines, or find them to be clichéd, this probably isn't for you.
> 
> Just so we're clear, I wanted to state for the record that I think JKR's novel is beautiful and brilliant and amazing as-is, and truthfully I wouldn't change a thing (well, okay, I wouldn't have minded more Ron/Hermione moments). I merely desired to play around with the idea of a pregnant Hermione during the Horcrux hunt, so try not to take this too seriously. It's not as if I'm expecting to be nominated for a Pulitzer for this.
> 
> Oh, & please forgive the Americanisms throughout, as I wrote this story before I'd done much research into British terminology. ;)
> 
> Warning:Contains mature content and language, the term "mature" being subjective based on reader interpretation, of course. If you're not old enough to buy a pack of cigarettes or get into an R-rated movie without adult supervision then you probably shouldn't be reading this, as it's not intended for the kiddies.
> 
> Disclaimer:I do not own the Harry Potter franchise and am making no money from writing this. No copyright infringement is intended.

_This segment falls between_ Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,  _Chapter Nine: A Place to Hide, and Chapter Ten: Kreacher's Tale_

oOo

" _Her arm curved to the floor, her fingers inches from Ron's. Harry wondered whether they had fallen asleep holding hands. The idea made him feel strangely lonely."_

 _-from_ DH,  _Chapter Ten: Kreacher's Tale_

oOo

"He all right?" Ron's voice rumbled from directly behind her, very near her ear.

Hermione yelped in surprise, spinning around as she pulled the bathroom door closed behind Harry. "Ron! You gave me a fright," she gasped in a mixture of annoyance and amusement. She paused, looking up at him. He was standing much too close, his frame towering over her, and Hermione couldn't help but note that he'd changed into the pajama bottoms and gray t-shirt she'd unpacked for him just before she'd brought Harry his toothbrush.

She also couldn't help but note that he seemed broader through the shoulders than he had a year ago, his biceps fuller and almost straining against the cotton. He was also barefoot. Had his feet always been so large?

"Sorry 'bout that," Ron murmured apologetically, interrupting her thoughts. "Well? How's Harry?" he added, a slight smirking edge to his tone, and Hermione felt herself flushing that she'd been staring and it hadn't been lost on him.

"I—he's fine," she replied, attempting to put some distance between her body and Ron's. "How are you?" she asked when she moved around him and stood several feet away as he leaned casually against the bathroom door, his arms crossing over his broad chest.

Abruptly the self-satisfied expression drained from his face, his eyes taking on a haunted look. Despite the reassurance sent by way of Mr. Weasley's Patronus, Hermione knew that the events of the past several hours, while taking its toll on all of them, had affected Ron the most. It was  _his_  family, after all, that they'd been forced to abandon when the news had come that the Ministry had fallen.

"'Bout as good as can be expected, I suppose," he replied as he gazed back at her intently. "But we've got each other, haven't we? Me, you, and Harry?"

She smiled tenderly at the unexpected vulnerability in his voice, abruptly overcome by an intense feeling of affection for the boy—no, he was a man now, wasn't he?—that she'd known since childhood. "Yes, we've got each other," she replied in a whisper, moving forward to hug him on sudden impulse.

He met her halfway, striding away from the bathroom door and engulfing her in his arms, which slipped low around her waist and pulled her flush against his body as her face was buried against his chest. His scent was everywhere; it engulfed her very senses, and she felt her arms snaking up his chest, slipping around his neck as she heard and felt him inhale deeply. She knew his face was pressed into her hair.

It certainly wasn't the first time they'd hugged, but something had shifted in the air between them, crackling like an electric spark. There was something decidedly different about this hug—something decidedly non-platonic. Not that their relationship had ever truly been platonic. It had always contained an underscore of something much deeper, even when they'd fought—and fought they certainly had.

Pulling away from him slightly, she stood up on the very tips of her toes, cupping his face in her hands as she pressed lingering kisses to his forehead, his eyelids, and his cheeks. She'd just leaned forward to press her lips against his when she heard the bathroom door open.

Hermione and Ron flew apart almost guiltily, avoiding Harry's eyes as he gazed curiously between the two of them. "Please, don't mind me," he said, a teasing edge to his tone as he disappeared into the drawing room.

Her face flushing hotly, Hermione turned back to Ron in time to see that his ears were bright red as he vanished inside the bathroom, muttering something about needing the loo. As the door shut behind him, she knew that the moment had passed.

As she rejoined Harry in the drawing room of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, she ignored his good-natured smirk while making a show of removing her toiletries and nightclothes from her beaded bag. The silence between them was almost deafening, and for a moment it seemed as if Harry wanted to say something, but his mouth closed as soon as it opened. For the most part, Harry had always kept his opinions to himself when it came to her relationship with Ron, and it didn't look as if that was about to change anytime soon.

Two hours later, the three of them had set up camp in the drawing room. At Ron's insistence, the couch cushions had been dragged onto the floor with Hermione's sleeping bag placed on top of them, directly between the two men's sleeping bags.

She now lounged across the cushions, facing Ron in the dark. They'd stayed up talking for a while about the Horcruxes and the fall of the Ministry of Magic, but Harry had been completely silent for a good twenty minutes now, his breathing deep and even.

She could tell by the way Ron was breathing that he was still awake, and that suspicion was confirmed when she felt his hand seeking hers in the dark, and she grasped it like a lifeline. His palm was large and cool in her own, the feeling of his skin igniting something undeniable in the pit of her stomach.

She wished that she had the words to soothe him; she wished she could tell him that everything would be okay, that they would all survive this, but that would be an empty promise, wouldn't it? She had no such guarantees to give.

"'Ermione?"

His voice was low, gravelly.

"Yes, Ron?" she whispered.

She could sense his hesitation in the several moments it took him to respond.

"Would you…lie with me?" She could practically hear his ears turning red. "I mean, just for a bit?" he added hastily. "I mean—I just wanna—never mind. Dumb idea. Forget I said anything."

Without hesitation or giving her actions a moment of thought, Hermione sat up in the dark, pulling herself onto the floor next to Ron. He seemed surprised even as he moved to hastily unzip his bag, but he certainly didn't argue his luck as she climbed in with him, his body heat drawing her in like a moth to the flame.

As his arms came around her and she rested her head on the crook of his shoulder, the combined scent of his skin and aftershave engulfed her once more, and she felt his body stiffen and realized that his breathing was slightly labored. When she turned slightly in the confined space, sliding her arm across his t-shirt-covered chest, her thigh brushed against something hard and stiff protruding from his hips beneath his flannel pajama bottoms.

Ron gasped at the contact, shifting away from her slightly in obvious embarrassment. "Shit, sorry 'bout that," he muttered, mortification in his voice.

"It's okay, Ron," she whispered, attempting to soothe his humiliation even as she felt her body flush in a desire of its own. Knowing that her close proximity aroused him sexually was enough to cause a sudden, undeniable stirring in her womb, accompanied by a surge of dampness between her thighs as the flesh there swelled of its own accord, her body blooming for him. "It's a natural biological reaction," she added, hearing the tremor in her voice. "My body reacts to you, too."

"It—it does?" He seemed incredulous, and Hermione couldn't help but smile that it would be so surprising to him. Didn't he know how she felt?

"Of course," she murmured as she considered their predicament. She had the sudden, inexplicable urge to pull his hand down between her thighs and let him feel the slickness there—the slickness that he'd caused—but she knew it wouldn't be the wisest course of action, would it?

For one, Harry was lying mere feet from them. Second, where would it lead even if he wasn't? While Hermione had practiced performing a Contraceptive Charm over the summer—after all, she wasn't naïve about her own sexuality or Ron's, and Hermione Granger was nothing if not prepared—there were only about a thousand reasons why this was the wrong place and time to take their relationship to the next level.

For instance, what if the charm didn't work? Even if she performed it correctly, no form of birth control was one-hundred percent effective, and evidently Weasley men harbored some Super Swimmers. An unplanned pregnancy would seriously compromise their mission. She wouldn't leave Harry and Ron on their own for anything—not even to go off and have a baby.

On the other hand, they could all die tomorrow. They could very well wake up to find Snape pointing a wand at their faces, and she and Ron might die without ever having experienced that sort of intimacy.

At least…not together.

With a small frown, she thought briefly of last year when Ron had been with Lavender Brown. Hermione didn't know if Ron had been with her…like that. She wanted to believe that he wasn't, but she hadn't been able to ignore Lavender's stage whispers to Parvati in the girls' dormitory, as much as she'd tried. According to Lavender, she and Ron had done everything in the book—and then some. But then, it was very probable that she'd been lying. Lavender had wanted Hermione to be jealous, that much was obvious.

Not that any of it mattered anymore. That was the past, and it was all very petty and meaningless in light of recent events.

"Hermione," Ron whispered suddenly, pulling her from her thoughts, "you know I'm not too good with words, but I've been wanting to tell you for a while now that I never…y'know…with Lavender."

In the pause that followed, Hermione gazed up at him from where her head rested on his chest, feeling slightly astonished that they'd both been thinking about the same thing. She couldn't quite make out his facial features in the dark, but she knew instinctively that he was remorseful.

"I wanted to," he admitted when he continued. "Blimey, us blokes—we're not all that complicated. When we're not thinking about food, we're thinking about…well, you get the idea. I know this doesn't excuse the fact that I was a git, but...for what it's worth it was you I was thinking about the whole time I was with her, and that's what stopped me from going further. I couldn't be with her like that when I wanted it to be you. Guess what I'm really trying to say is that I'm sorry. For everything."

Hermione was still absorbing everything when his little speech ended. She hadn't expected this, for him to openly talk about what had happened last year and to say he was sorry. She'd been prepared to forgive and forget without an apology from him, but the fact that he was sharing his feelings honestly when it must've been difficult was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

"It's all right, Ron," she whispered as she reached up to trace his familiar features. His beard had already started to grow in since he'd shaved that morning before the wedding, and his full lips were soft and slightly chapped. He kissed the tips of her fingers gently. "All is forgiven." And then she leaned up, pressing her lips chastely and lingeringly to the place her fingertips had just vacated.

She wanted to deepen the kiss, to open her mouth and seek entrance into his with her tongue. She wanted to allow the raw passion that had been threatening to erupt between them for a while now to consume her. Yet she held back for the reasons she'd listed in her head minutes before.

Apparently sensing her hesitancy and not wanting to pressure her, Ron was the one to end the kiss, pulling back gently and pressing his lips to her forehead as his hand stroked the back of her head. Silence ensued as Hermione lied back down on his chest, her hand tracing random patterns on his torso through his shirt. There was still so much left unsaid between them, but no words were needed at that moment. As his thick fingers threaded tenderly in her hair, she knew it was a silent promise that he would wait for her as long as she needed.

When she was ready for him, though, he'd be there for her—whatever she needed from him.

She kissed him one last time, silently thanking him for his uncharacteristic understanding and patience, before unzipping his sleeping bag and climbing back into her own. This time, it was her hand that sought his in the darkness, and it anchored her, an immense comfort in the pressing uncertainty that the future held.

Whatever happened, they wouldn't go it alone. They had each other.


	2. A Wrestling Match

_This segment falls within the beginning of DH_ ,  _Chapter Twelve: Magic is Might, during the month of August when the trio is preparing to infiltrate the Ministry of Magic in search of the locket._

oOo

She and Ron hadn't shared another kiss or any sort of intimacy—aside from the occasional hug, of course—since that first night in Grimmauld Place weeks ago. In fact, more often than not, they rather got on each other's nerves, didn't they?

For instance, even now, as Hermione sat perched on the couch in the drawing room poring over the most recent data obtained from their careful surveillance of the Ministry, Ron had begun playing with his Deluminator. Again.

" _Ron,"_ she practically growled, her jaw clenched tight in annoyance as the light was sucked from the room once more.

"Sorry, sorry!" he wailed in response as the light returned to the various lamps scattered throughout the room. "I'm just antsy!"

"We all are, Ron," she replied irritably, her concentration broken as she shoved the parchment she'd been perusing aside, her brain feeling like mush. She'd been going over all the information they'd obtained for hours, and she wasn't feeling any more confident about their plan than she had a week ago. In truth, all she seemed to have accomplished was to give herself a throbbing temple and a twinge between her shoulder blades from crouching over her notes for long stretches at a time.

She stood abruptly, arching her back as she stretched, thinking that the scent of stew issuing from the kitchen was mouthwatering. She expected that Kreacher would be calling on them to wash up for dinner in the next—

Ron was blatantly staring at her chest as she stretched, his mouth slightly agape. Blushing furiously, Hermione straightened and crossed her arms over her chest, avoiding his gaze as she aimlessly began to pace while silently questioning her decision to go braless in a tank top. After all, she may not look like one of those bimbos in Ron's stack of  _Wicked Witches_ that she'd unfortunately stumbled upon in his bedroom the summer before, but she knew he wasn't oblivious to the…charms that she did happen to possess.

Feeling even warmer, her thoughts flickered once more to their first night here, when she'd crawled into his sleeping bag in an uncharacteristic moment of boldness and her thigh had brushed…well, the evidence of his desire for her.

Just last week she'd awakened to find Ron gone—they'd chosen to continue to camp together in the drawing room even though Harry had moved into Sirius's old bedroom—and upon investigating, she'd discovered a light on beneath the bathroom door. When she'd heard Ron's unmistakable deep groan behind the door, she'd been on the very verge of knocking and inquiring whether he was ill, but then…the groan had become her name.

The reality of what he was doing in there, and who he happened to be thinking of, had struck her with the subtlety of a lightning bolt, and she'd quietly returned to the drawing room and slipped into her sleeping bag. As she'd lain in the dark, her eyes wide open, she'd felt partly aroused, partly flabbergasted, and partly ashamed that she'd caught him in the throes of such an intimate, private act. He'd be humiliated if he knew she'd heard him, which was only one reason why she would never let him find out.

When Ron had quietly slipped back into the room several minutes later, his sleeping bag inching closer to hers as he settled back in, she'd very nearly reached for him in the dark—and not just to hold his hand. She'd desired greatly to make love with him, a feeling that had been almost too vast for her to ignore, but she'd reluctantly suppressed the urge, feeling rather strongly that she'd likely regret the act in the light of day.

They had to concentrate, after all. They couldn't afford to be distracted in a time like this, when it was critical that their heads be in the game. Harry needed them, whether he'd admit to it or not.

On that thought, Hermione turned mid-step as she paced, striding abruptly toward the window. She imagined she could feel Ron's eyes on her backside, but she ignored him as she moved the curtain aside. Outside, in the little square of grass dying in the August sun, there were more Death Eaters assembled than there had been the day before. Hermione had to repress the urge to duck out of sight, as their eyes all seemed to be turned toward her, but she knew they couldn't see her.

"Bloody gits, aren't they?" Ron's voice stated from directly behind her, very near her ear, causing her to jump. "If I were a Death Eater, I imagine I'd make an effort to be a bit less conspicuous. I mean, do they really expect Harry to just come strolling up to Grimmauld Place with that sort of greeting party waiting for him?"

"You know, you've really got to stop sneaking up on me like that," Hermione said with a little laugh. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that he was standing quite close to her, his arms braced on either side of the window frame. She could practically feel his body heat radiating between them, almost scorching her through their clothing.

"Can't help it," he replied, a grin in his voice as she turned her gaze back to the window. "I'm just stealthy like that."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help but grin in return. "Right. Stealthy. Is that why you nearly fall every time you Apparate onto the top step?"

"That doesn't have anything to do with stealth, sweetheart. That's just gravity."

 _Sweetheart._  Hermione felt oddly torn between bemusement and warmth at the unexpected term of endearment issuing from Ron's mouth.

"Speaking of Apparating, when do you suppose Harry'll be back?"

"Soon, I expect," Hermione replied as she continued to watch the Death Eaters. "It's almost supper time." In truth, she was starting to feel a bit worried. One of their agreements was that they should be back by seven o'clock each evening on their individual turns surveying the Ministry. It was now nearing seven-thirty and Harry was still gone.

It was just one of the many instances that Hermione longed for the convenience of Muggle technology in the Magical world. A couple of cell phones would be exceedingly useful about now.

Several moments of silence passed between them as Hermione considered that it had been three long weeks since that unpleasant encounter with Lupin in which they'd learned that Harry was the most wanted man in the whole of Great Britain. Three weeks since they'd learned that Muggle-borns like herself were being rounded up at this very moment and brought into the Ministry for interrogation. Three weeks in which they'd discovered that Dolores Umbridge had the Horcrux that they currently sought, and as such they would be marching into the very heart of the Ministry in order to retrieve it.

Hermione had to admit to herself that she was scared, not so much for herself as she was for Harry and Ron. And for her parents, who were always in the back of her mind. Though she'd taken measures to ensure their safety, if she, Harry, and Ron were unsuccessful and ended up in Death Eater—or Ministry, since they were one and the same now—captivity, she felt sure that her parents could be traced, and would be. Perhaps they'd be hunted down and murdered for mere sport. Killing the families of Mudbloods—particularly Mudbloods who happened to be consorting with Harry Potter—seemed like the perfect pastime for Death Eaters.

As if in tune with what she was thinking, she felt Ron's large hand come down on the back of her neck beneath her ponytail. Her body reacted instantly to his touch, but she pushed the feeling aside. However, she didn't push his hand aside. On the contrary, she leaned into his touch as he began rubbing circles with the pad of his thumb, kneading the tender skin there.

"When the time comes to infiltrate the Ministry," he said suddenly, lowly, "I reckon you should stay here. It should be just me and Harry."

Her eyes, which had begun to drift pleasurably closed at his touch, snapped open abruptly, and she wheeled around. "Ron Weasley, you're mad if you think I'd let you two go without me," she snapped in exasperated disbelief. "We've been planning this for  _weeks!_ "

Ron was adamant as he gazed down at her, his eyes intense. "Hermione, you're Muggle-born. If we're caught…" He shook his head, averting his eyes suddenly as if he couldn't imagine the horrors that would be in store for her.

Softening at the vulnerability in his expression, she reached out, grasping his hands in her own as she gazed up at those familiar blue eyes that she adored so much. "Being well prepared is the entire point of all these reconnaissance trips, Ron," she implored, her tone much softer than it had been previously. "Besides, I simply won't let you go by yourselves. Admit it, you and Harry wouldn't last five minutes without me."

"Well, you are the brains of this operation," he admitted reluctantly as he met her eyes once more, a small smile playing on his lips. "Even still, I don't like it."

"And I appreciate the chivalry," she responded, returning his smile gently, "but it's not your choice."

He chose not to press the issue for the time being, but Hermione had a feeling that the battle wasn't yet won. She felt sure that Ron would go to Harry about this; he'd try to persuade him that he was right concerning this matter.

With a small sigh, she disentangled her fingers from his, moving back toward the couch. "There are more preparations to be done," she said as she began to shuffle through the stacks of parchments she'd been studying for the past several hours.

"Not tonight, there isn't," Ron disagreed as he walked forward and snatched the parchments from her fingers, tossing them aside.

"Ron, what are you—?"

"You've been staring at those bloody things for hours," he replied as he slid behind her, forcing her to scoot her bum to the edge of the couch as his thighs now cradled her body. "I get the feeling somehow that staring at them for another few isn't going to accomplish anything."

Immediately, her heart began to hammer in an involuntary excitement as her breathing increased noticeably. What was he…?

"Just relax," he answered her unspoken question. "I'm going to give you a massage."

She gave him a look over her shoulder that implied he might've grown a second head. "Who are you and what have you done with Ron Weasley?"

He laughed at that as he swept her ponytail over her shoulder, his hands settling on her collarbone. "Blimey, Hermione, is it really so surprising that I'd wanna make you feel good?"

"Do you want the honest answer?" she returned, one eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, well, we've already established that I'm a self-absorbed git," he replied with a laugh, "but I'm trying to do better, so just go with it, okay? Relax, Hermione." Leaning down, he placed a tender kiss to the back of her neck, his tongue practically scalding her where it made contact with her skin through his slightly parted lips.

Having no real desire to argue, she let out a shaky breath, attempting to relax as his thumbs began moving in slow circles, starting at the base of her spine and working outward toward her shoulders. His hands were strong but gentle, and he responded in kind to her low moans of encouragement. The familiar heat had begun to spread in her loins, and Hermione struggled to control her erratic breathing as he aroused her sexually, whether intentionally or not.

However, as he began rubbing the outsides of her arms, his fingertips brushing the sides of her breasts with every upward and downward stroke, she had no doubt in her mind that Ron knew exactly what he was doing—and her entire body was very aware of the stiff, sizable bulge that was currently pressed into the small of her back. Unlike the night three weeks ago when she'd climbed into his sleeping bag, he wasn't apologizing or making any effort to hide his desire.

Wildly, Hermione found herself wondering if this was his attempt to seduce her, despite his talk about wanting to make her feel good. Merlin help her, but it was working. She couldn't ever remember having been this completely aroused in her life. She had a sudden, feral, admittedly hormonal urge to turn around, straddle him, and let him have his way with her—no matter how irrational or foolhardy the desire may be.

Could she even remember the words for the incantation she'd need to ensure a pregnancy wouldn't result? Where was she in her monthly cycle, anyway? And did she even know where her wand was?

One of his hands had now made its way beneath the thin cotton of her tank, working its way up toward her chest while the other stroked her upper thigh. She gasped aloud when the hand beneath her shirt cupped one of her breasts experimentally before rolling her nipple between thumb and forefinger.

"Does that feel good?" he whispered into her ear. He was breathing heavily as well, practically panting in a desire of his own as he sucked her earlobe between his lips. "I meant what I said," he continued lowly as he found her other breast, tugging and kneading gently. "This is about you. I know I'm just a randy bloke, but it's you I want to make feel good. I promise you don't have to do anything in return. So would that be okay, 'Ermione? Would you show me how to touch you?"

She swallowed hard, trying to think rationally, but rational thought was difficult when Ron Weasley was massaging her breasts with one hand and the area between her legs with the other.

With a groan of acquiescence, Hermione parted her thighs as she unbuttoned her simple khaki shorts with trembling fingers. In his impatience, Ron had delved his hand inside her knickers before she'd managed to get her shorts completely undone, and she bucked against his fingers instinctively, gasping as they began to move inexpertly in her slick folds.

"You're so  _wet_ ," Ron moaned in evident pleasure.

As she covered his hand with hers, guiding him, showing him how to touch her, his lips captured hers over her shoulder. She reached her free hand up, pulling his face down more fully against hers as his tongue delved into her mouth for the first time, penetrating her in a similar manner that his long, thick fingers were now penetrating her core.

It only took moments before she was left gasping and trembling against Ron's mouth, the tremors of pleasure rocking her body as she climaxed forcefully around his rapidly plunging and flicking fingers. When he'd at last ridden out the shock waves and pulled his fingers from her body, he yanked her around almost roughly in his lap, her center settling on his erection through his jeans as they fell back against the cushions.

Their tongues and lips dueled passionately, her trembling hands going for the fly of his jeans, consequences be damned. Ron groaned her name in obvious anticipation of her touch when a familiar sound brought Hermione hurtling rudely back to reality: Moody's voice growling,  _"Severus Snape?"_

"I didn't kill you," Harry replied from the floor below, his voice carrying through the drawing room's open door. "It's just me!" he called, which was obviously meant for Ron and Hermione.

"We're up here!" Ron bellowed in response.

Trembling in mutual desire and frustration, they reluctantly pulled themselves apart and stood up, both making sure everything was tucked back into place as they heard Kreacher fussing over Harry downstairs. As Hermione attempted to flatten her now extra-bushy hair, she couldn't help but stare at the quite conspicuous bulge straining against Ron's jeans.

She turned away, blushing hotly, as Harry entered the room, but not before she glimpsed Ron snatching a velvet throw pillow from the couch to hide his erection.

"Hi, Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, her voice sounding oddly high to her own ears. "Anything interesting happen today?" Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ron wince at her false-sounding enthusiasm.

"Not…at the Ministry," Harry replied slowly as his eyes took in her appearance, which must've been ruffled and red-face, the disheveled couch cushions, and the parchments spread haphazardly over the floor. Lastly, he looked at Ron, whose ears were the brightest shade of scarlet Hermione had ever seen them, and he was clutching the pillow against his hips like life depended on it. His expression was one of a child who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Both Hermione and Ron were still breathing rather heavily.

"Anything interesting happen  _here_?" There was unmistakable humor in Harry's tone.

Hermione couldn't help herself: She burst into laughter. Ron was probably the funniest sight she'd ever seen, and she imagined she looked just as comical.

"Don't know what you're talking about, mate," Ron replied in a valiant attempt to keep a straight face. "Hermione and I were just, y'know…"

"Wrestling?" Harry interjected when Ron trailed off feebly.

Hermione's giggles increased, and she bent at the waist in an attempt to catch her breath.

"On that note," Harry said with a good-natured smirk, glancing between his two best friends, "I'm going to go down to the kitchen and have dinner. You two are welcome to…finish up your wrestling match." He put emphasis on the term 'wrestling match,' nearly bursting into laughter himself.

As he retreated, Hermione continued to giggle, wiping the tears of amusement from her eyes. "I let you win, just so you know," she said, turning to Ron.

"Is that a fact?" There was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

She shrugged. "Don't worry, Ron. I'm sure there'll be time for a rematch." And then she kissed him gently before joining Harry down in the kitchen, Ron following close behind after using the loo.

"So did you see my dad today?" Ron asked as he spooned a hefty portion of mashed potatoes onto his plate, the same question he asked every day that Harry or Hermione did the recon.

"Yep. He looks good. And the little bloke in the blue robes and the old witch. Like clockwork, those two."

"Excellent."

"For Merlin's sake, Ron, could you please not talk with your mouth full?"

"Hey! I'm multitasking, 'Ermione. You should be proud."

"Oh, please… So anyway, Harry, no sign of Umbridge then?"

"Not surprisingly, no."

"Maybe she croaked. Get it? Croaked? Cause she looks like a toad?"

"Hahaha, yeah, we get it, Ron…"


	3. Resolution & a Revelation

_This segment falls within DH_ ,  _Chapter Fourteen: The Thief, during their first night in the woods, after Harry takes over as lookout for Hermione at ten o'clock._

oOo

" _Hermione was watching Ron fret over the fate of the Cattermoles, and there was such tenderness in her expression that Harry felt almost as if he had surprised her in the act of kissing him."_

" _Ron and Hermione, now talking softly behind him in the tent, could walk away if they wanted to: He could not. And it seemed to Harry…that the Horcrux against his chest was ticking away the time he had left…"_

_-from DH Chapter Fourteen: The Thief_

oOo

As it turned out, Hermione and Ron had not had the opportunity for the "rematch" that she'd promised him. In the week following their unanticipated "wrestling match," the trio had been so busy with preparing for the infiltration of the Ministry that they'd gone to bed late every night, utterly exhausted and on edge with nerves.

Tensions had run high. Ron and Hermione had argued more often than not—mostly over whether Hermione should accompany the two men. After Harry had managed to snag the issue of the  _Daily Prophet_ containing the list of Muggle-borns who'd failed to present themselves for interrogation, and Hermione's name had been on that list, Ron had been steadfast.

She wouldn't hear of not going, however, which had led to several bitter disagreements. Harry had tried to stay out of the conflicts for the most part, interfering only when Hermione had threatened to transfigure Ron into the "enormous arse that he is."

Truly, Hermione had understood where he was coming from. Despite his occasional arse-ish tendencies, at his heart Ron held old-fashioned values that she respected and even appreciated, and a part of her was touched and pleased that he cared so deeply for her, but she wouldn't waver on this. They needed her, and the time for chivalry was long past.

Their very last night at Grimmauld Place—had that really only been twenty-four hours ago?—Ron had reached for her in the dark as they'd lain in silence, unable to sleep though exhausted, due to nerves over what they'd had planned the next day. Reluctantly Ron had accepted defeat when he'd realized, at long last, that there was no changing Hermione Granger's mind.

When she'd sensed him edging closer to her that night, and his arms had come around her waist from behind, she'd wanted to comfort him; she'd wanted to tell him that she would be fine. Knowing that she had no such reassurances to give, however—truthfully, she hadn't believed they were prepared enough to be attempting this yet—she'd pulled away from Ron, citing that they needed their rest.

Hermione knew that the rejection had stung him, and now, while she bade Harry goodnight at the tent's entrance—she'd take over the watch again at two—she regretted that she'd rejected Ron as she ducked inside with a barely suppressed yawn.

They'd survived today, not to mention managed to obtain the Horcrux, on sheer luck. Their carefully constructed plan had been embarrassingly juvenile, and luck was the only explanation for how they'd managed to escape intact.

Well, almost intact, at any rate.

Hermione's heart constricted as she saw Ron lying on his bunk. At first glance he appeared to be unconscious again, but she realized his eyes were open and he was watching her in the lamplight with an odd expression on his face. He was too weak to hold up his head, she realized. He'd lost a lot of blood today, and dinner had been depressingly inadequate. They'd have to get him something substantial to eat—and soon.

"Hi," she said gently as she approached his bedside, sitting down on the floor beside him so that they were eye level as he struggled to turn toward her.

"Hey," he replied with a valiant attempt at a smile. "Still no Death Eaters knocking at our door, I take it." His eyes flashed toward the silent Sneakoscope on the table.

She returned his smile grimly. "I'm still worried about how they found us so quickly at Tottenham Court Road. Even if the enchantments hold up, I don't think we should stay in one place for too long. As soon as you're well enough to travel, I think we should move on."

Ron nodded in agreement. "So what happens now?" he asked after a moment of silence. "D'you reckon Harry has a plan?"

"I think…if Harry had a plan he would've mentioned it by now," Hermione replied slowly, frowning slightly. "But it's one thing at a time, isn't it? First we work on getting you stronger, and then we'll concentrate on figuring out how to destroy the locket before we worry about the other Horcruxes."

Ron didn't seem too enthusiastic about that "plan," but he nodded again. "Hermione…"

"Yes?" she whispered when he hesitated. He seemed to want to say something but was having difficulty formulating the words.

"I'm glad you came with us," he finally said. "You were right. We needed you—we  _need_  you, I mean." He paused again. " _I_  need you."

Hermione felt her face warming at the meaning behind his words. "In all honesty, I don't know that I did much—"

"Rubbish."

"—but I appreciate that. Really."

"And I'm sorry for being an enormous arse, I believe is the way you put it."

"That's quite all right, Ron," she said with a teasing grin. "I know it can't be helped; it's simply part of who you are."

He chuckled lightly at that before continuing: "I know you can take care of yourself, Hermione. Blimey, helluva lot better than me and Harry can take care  _our_ selves."

On impulse, overcome with affection, Hermione leaned down and kissed him—the first kiss they'd shared in days. It was chaste at first, just her lips on his, but then she felt his uninjured arm come up, and his hand gripped the back of her neck, pressing her more fully against him. His lips parted, his tongue seeking hers hungrily, so very hungrily…

Hermione ended the kiss regretfully, pulling away with a gasp of raw desire. Beneath the thin sheet that covered his lower body, she could see that he was aroused, and that couldn't be good considering how much blood he'd lost today. "We should probably take it easy," she whispered breathlessly, almost shyly. Besides which, she had to remind herself that Harry was just outside the tent. "At least until you're a bit better," she tacked on.

The look he gave her was raw and hungry and powerful; it warmed her from the inside out. Hermione knew in that moment that she would make love to him very soon—as soon as she could—before the next phase of their mission, whatever and whenever that would be. Today proved that they could die or be captured at any moment, and she'd be damned if that happened before she could experience physical intimacy with the man that she…

_Loved._

It hit her like a ton of bricks. She loved him.

_You don't say_ , said a tiny voice in the back of her mind.  _And you're supposed to be clever. Take you this long to figure it out, did it?_

_No_ , she silently answered her own question. She'd known it all along, hadn't she? For Hermione Granger, there had never been anyone but Ron. The only other boy she'd ever really dated had been Viktor Krum, and although she'd liked him okay and had even kissed him a few times, there hadn't been any real passion on her end. And of course she loved Harry, but it simply wasn't like that with them—never had been. Harry was her best friend, but Ron was something different to her, something more…

"Ron…" she whispered, her palm coming up to embrace his whiskered jaw as she gazed down into his blue eyes. "I l—"

At that moment, Harry began yelling from outside the tent.

" _What the bloody…,"_  Ron began, attempting to pull himself into a sitting position, but Hermione had already snatched her wand off the nearby table and dove out the tent, her heart racing as she expected to find Death Eaters—

Harry was sprawled on the ground, clutching at his forehead as he yelled incoherently, his lit wand lying nearby. But he was quite solitary. There was no one else in sight.

She lowered her wand as she dropped onto her knees at his side, leaning over him.  _"Harry!"_

He opened his eyes then, and after a moment, as his eyes seemed to focus on her, he dropped his hands from his forehead, the yells dying in his throat. "Dream," he said weakly as he pulled himself shakily to a sitting position. "Must've dozed off, sorry."

She stared at him in exasperation. Did he really think she was daft? "I know it was your scar! I can tell by the look on your face! You were looking into Vol—"

"Don't say his name!" Ron yelled from inside the tent.

" _Fine,"_ she snapped irritably. Why the bloody hell did it matter what they called him?  _"You-Know-Who's_  mind, then!"

"I didn't mean it to happen!" Harry protested. "It was a dream! Can  _you_  control what you dream about, Hermione?"

"If you just learned to apply Occlumency—"

"He's found Gregorovitch, Hermione," Harry said in a rush, cutting her off, "and I think he's killed him, but before he killed him he read Gregorovitch's mind and I saw—"

"I think I'd better take over the watch if you're so tired you're falling asleep," Hermione stated, not allowing him to continue. There was a very good reason that Dumbledore had wanted Harry to close off his connection to Voldemort's mind, and if Harry was going to disregard those reasons, then Hermione certainly wasn't going to stand there and listen to it.

"I can finish the watch!"

"No, you're obviously exhausted. Go and lie down." At that, Hermione plopped down in the mouth of the tent resolutely, not leaving him any room to argue.

Without another word, Harry ducked inside the tent, and moments later she heard him and Ron talking quietly. No doubt they were discussing Harry's latest "dream." It angered her that he wouldn't even  _try_ to close off his connection to Voldemort's mind while knowing that Voldemort had once used that very connection to bait Harry. It had resulted in Sirius's death. Clearly it could endanger them all.

At this very moment, Voldemort could possibly be using that connection in the same manner that Harry was. It could very realistically give away their location. Once more, Hermione thought of the Death Eaters at Tottenham Court Road. That hadn't been a mere coincidence.

As she stretched out her legs in front of her, listening to the sounds of animals moving in the trees beyond, Hermione could almost imagine that Voldemort was hidden amongst those trees, watching her even now. She shivered in the night air, holding her wand up higher as she tried to think about something else—anything else.

She thought of her parents, who were safe in Australia, happy, without the knowledge that they had a daughter. She thought of dancing with Ron at Bill and Fleur's wedding, and how he'd looked at her like he was really seeing her for the first time. She thought of that very night when she'd kissed him for the first time.

She thought of a week ago, when Ron had…

Hermione warmed at the memory, thinking that it was a lovely distraction from thoughts of Voldemort and Death Eaters. She whiled away the next several hours by fantasizing about what she planned on doing with Ron when they were next alone together, and he was stronger…


	4. A Culmination

_This segment falls at the beginning of DH_ ,  _Chapter Fifteen: The Goblin's Revenge, the day after the incident in which Harry couldn't produce a Patronus._

oOo

Two mornings later placed the trio in a distant field upon which rested a lonely Muggle farm. Harry and Hermione had obtained eggs and bread from the farmhouse the previous evening, which had led to a surprisingly cheerful night, full of laughter and good spirits, considering the grim events that had transpired earlier that day: Harry had been unable to produce a Patronus when he'd run across dementors in a Muggle village, and Ron had been downright disagreeable as a result of combined hunger and blood loss.

As it turned out, however, full stomachs meant good cheer, and the three had stayed up rather late talking and laughing. When Hermione had finally declared it lights out, Harry happily agreed to take first watch. Ron, who'd been sitting in the armchair next to Hermione's, had stood and wordlessly taken her hand, pulling her toward his lower bunk. She'd only protested feebly before climbing beneath the covers with him and snuggling up to the comforting warmth of his body. Out of respect for Harry, who was now sitting in the entrance, lit wand in hand, they'd only snuck a few kisses before she'd settled into Ron's chest and fallen into a deep sleep, his hand entangled in her hair.

Hermione awoke to the sound of Harry gently saying her name. She pried her eyes open reluctantly to find him hovering over her, an odd sort of smile tugging up the corners of his lips. "Sleep well?"

"Shut up," she muttered with a sheepish laugh, being careful not to disturb Ron, who was snoring rather loudly, as she shifted his arm out of her way and slipped quietly from beneath the covers. As her feet touched the cold canvas material of the tent's floor, Harry silently crossed to the kitchenette to make a pot of tea.

Hermione paused only to stretch her stiff limbs before joining Harry on the other side of the tent, who pressed a steaming mug into her hands. "Thanks," she said gratefully, taking a sip to avoid having to look directly at him. She was embarrassed that Harry knew she'd shared a bed with Ron that night, even if they hadn't actually  _done_  anything.

To Harry's credit, though, he didn't say anything more except to offer to stand watch a little longer if she fancied a shower before taking over. She accepted the offer graciously, and fifteen minutes later she was dressed and seated in the mouth of the tent so recently vacated by Harry, wand lit,  _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ open in her lap.

"'Night, Hermione," Harry called as he climbed into the bed above Ron's.

"Sleep well, Harry," she replied, her eyes briefly sweeping over the early morning sky, which had lost its velvety black appearance and was now a deep navy, some of the stars having vanished in the approaching light of day.

The watch passed by uneventfully, and when the time came for her to wake Ron so he could take over, she chose to let him sleep. After all, his body was still healing, and Hermione didn't feel all that sleepy anymore.

The sun had risen completely by the time Harry awoke, yawning. Hermione was in the little kitchenette, cooking up the remainder of the eggs and bread, which wasn't very much at all. Harry seemed surprised to see that Ron was still snoring away in the bottom bunk, but he didn't comment as he grunted a greeting in her direction before disappearing into the loo.

"We're going to need more food," she commented when Harry joined her at the little table, where she'd already eaten her meager portion. She'd eaten very little, choosing to leave the majority for Ron and Harry.

"Oh, here, you can have mine," he said, sliding his plate toward her.

"No, thank you, Harry," she replied with a small smile, pushing it back at him. "Really, I'm fine. Besides, it's not me that I'm worried about."

She didn't have to look in Ron's direction for Harry to understand what she meant. They'd both witnessed Ron's dour behavior the day before when he'd been forced to survive off a few meager mushrooms.

"We'll move on after he wakes up," Harry said after he'd swallowed a mouthful of eggs. "Maybe we can find somewhere closer to people. Where there are people, there's food."

They both glanced at Ron, who didn't seem as if he'd be waking up any time soon.

"Well," Harry said abruptly, standing up from the table, "I think I'll take a walk around the farm to pass the time while Sleeping Beauty gets his rest. Maybe I can get my hands on some more eggs or something."

"Do you think that's wise?" she asked, feeling a bit alarmed at the prospect of him going off by himself outside of her protective enchantments.

"I've got my wand, Hermione," he said reasonably. "It'll be fine. I'll be back in an hour or so."

Hermione stood frozen as he ducked out the tent and departed from sight, the butterflies fluttering in her stomach as she suddenly realized that this was the opportunity to be alone with Ron that she'd been hoping for. So was she really going to do it then? Seduce Ron?

"'Er-my-nee?" his voice called from behind her.

"I'm here," she replied rather calmly, turning to see Ron sitting up in bed tentatively, his eyes bleary and bloodshot as they focused on her. With a deep, calming breath, she moved toward him and perched on the edge of his bed. "I need to check your arm," she murmured, not missing the way his eyes fastened on her chest as she gently removed his shirt.

She had a feeling that the seduction game wouldn't be all that difficult when the seductee was more than willing.

"Where's Harry?" he asked, finally dragging his eyes upward to meet hers. "And why didn't you wake me for my watch?"

"He went for a walk." She chose to answer his first question only as she studied his wound, avoiding meeting his eyes. "This looks much better today," she said approvingly. "How do you feel?"

"Hungry."

His reply was a deep rumble, and as Hermione slowly lifted her eyes to meet Ron's, she saw in his expression that he wasn't talking about food this time. He  _most definitely_  wasn't talking about food. Evidently, having been relatively well fed the night before, he was able to focus on his body's other, less pressing, base needs.

She swallowed hard, her whole body heating up.

"Gotta use the loo," he said suddenly, and Hermione moved out of his way as pulled himself to a standing position and brushed past her, disappearing briefly into the bathroom.

Without allowing herself to think too much about what she was doing, she reached for her wand and aimed it at herself.

"What are you doing?" Ron asked her curiously when he returned a moment later, plopping back down on the bed as he watched her utter the incantation under her breath. She assumed that she performed the charm correctly, based on the warm glow that was spreading through her uterus—but maybe that feeling of warmth had more to do with the way Ron was looking at her than it did the spell.

"Contraception," she replied in a murmur, setting the wand aside.

His eyes widened slightly at her simple response, his breathing increasing exponentially. In that moment, he was truly the loveliest thing she'd ever seen in her life, as he stared at her like she was the only woman in the world.

Hermione's eyes never left his as she began to slowly undress, starting with her t-shirt, which she pulled over her head, before peeling off her bra and pushing her jeans and knickers down her legs. She'd almost forgotten about the Horcrux hanging between her breasts, and she removed the foul thing, placing it near her wand on a low end table.

She ignored her own shy blush as she at last stood completely bared before him, choosing instead to take satisfaction in Ron's quick, erratic breathing and lusty, gobsmacked expression as his eyes drank up her body. She wouldn't allow herself to feel self-conscious because evidently Ron liked what he saw, judging by the massive bulge tenting his loose cotton pajama bottoms.

"Don't know what I did to deserve this, but I'm the luckiest sonuvabitch alive," he breathed shakily as Hermione stepped toward him where he sat on the edge of the bed. His expression was of someone who'd unexpectedly won the largest lottery ever.

"Ron, take off your pants."

He didn't hesitate for a moment. "Never thought I'd hear those words coming from your mouth, Hermione, not that I'm complaining," Ron commented, an edge of nervous humor to his voice as he stood once more and pushed his pajama bottoms down his hips, kicking them off carelessly as his impressive erection sprang free.

He sat back down, looking up at her in excited expectation. Hermione couldn't stop the flutter of nerves as she took in his size. He was considerably larger than any of the photographs and drawings she'd seen in anatomy books, although logically she knew that she shouldn't have any trouble accommodating him. The female body was designed to pass an infant's head, after all, and she was already ready for him physically—and he hadn't even touched her yet.

"Um, Hermione? You're staring at me like I've seen you stare at complicated Potions recipes."

"Oh! Sorry."

Without another moment of hesitation, she straddled him, his hot, heavy length settling against her belly as he fell backwards, allowing her to be the one in control. Hermione leaned down and kissed him, her tongue gliding eagerly into his mouth as one of his hands came up to thread in her hair, the other curving around her hip, squeezing her bum. His skin was soft, so very soft, and she loved the feel of her bare breasts pressed against his chest, which had a spattering of downy, reddish hairs.

As their tongues continued to duel erratically, his hips began making eager little jerking movements against her stomach. She responded by reaching between their bodies, her hand gliding over his taut abs before wrapping firmly around his hot length. Ron gasped against her mouth as she squeezed him gently before pumping him once, twice…

"'Ermione, I'll be honest, not gonna last long," he panted, his voice strained.

"It's okay, Ron," she whispered against his lips as one of his hands found her breasts, tugging and kneading inexpertly. "This is about you. Let me make you feel good."

He whimpered in response, and Hermione lifted her hips over his then, her fist positioning him at her opening. She braced herself: She was expecting pain, but she didn't want him to know. She didn't want Ron to feel guilty about anything.

She kissed him again, the tenderness that she employed at odds with the feral intensity of moments before, as she sunk her body smoothly and fully onto him. Despite the fact that she was well lubricated and open for him, her body protested the penetration nonetheless, just as she'd expected. It took her quite a bit of concentration to relax her painfully stretched muscles as she buried her face into the tender underside of his throat, willing the pain to pass.

Despite the pain, however, Hermione reveled in the raw, primal feeling of being joined with Ron so intimately and knowing that they were experiencing this first time together; she loved that it was  _him_  stretching and filling her so completely.

Below her, Ron was gasping and shuddering in apparent bliss, entirely oblivious to her discomfort, which was what she'd hoped for. Thankfully, though, as she began to move her hips over his in a rhythm as old as time itself, the pain slowly receded, leaving a mounting pleasure in its wake.

Ron's hands took hold of her hips desperately, and he moved her hips over his, bucking upward erratically as he continued to gasp and pant his pleasure.  _"'Ermione,"_  he groaned ecstatically as she rode him hard, his knees bending upward as he approached his climax,  _"…so good…"_ Just a few more violent thrusts and he shuddered more forcefully than ever, his eyes rolling back in his head as a roar of supreme pleasure that vaguely resembled her name ripped from his lips.

Hermione could feel him pulsing deep and rapidly within her body, and she milked him dry, moving her hips over his until his shuddering and groaning had died and he'd gone completely still inside her.

Ron was looking up at her in dazed wonderment as she cupped his face between her palms, kissing him deeply, affectionately."You're amazing, you are," Ron breathed against her lips, sounding shaky in his post-coital bliss. "Merlin, I love you."

She felt her eyes go wide as saucers as she stared at him in astonishment.

"Is that so surprising?" he whispered, a small smile on his lips. "I love you. I think I've always loved you. In fact, I know I have."

"I love you, too, Ron," she whispered, unexpected tears of happiness stinging her eyes, which she wiped away in frustration.

He grinned in jubilation at her response. "Just now, you didn't…did you?" he asked, switching gears abruptly.

"What? Oh." Hermione blushed.

"Yeah, I didn't think so." Suddenly, she was on her back, and Ron was sliding down her body, parting her thighs. "That's just not acceptable."

"Ron, you don't have to…" Her face burned as he stared at the area between her legs. In embarrassment, she tried to clamp her thighs shut, but his strong hands came up, holding them open.

"Rubbish. And don't be shy, Hermione. Believe me, you've got nothin' to be embarrassed about, you're gorgeous," he added, his gaze dark with unmistakable lust as he stared once more at her most intimate area. "Relax," he whispered as he picked up her wand from the end table and siphoned away his own fluids and assumedly the blood from her broken hymen.

And then he dipped his head forward, tasting her, exploring her with his fingers and tongue. Hermione shuddered beneath him, gasping as he edged her toward her release: She'd already been so aroused that it didn't take long. Directing him on what to do, her shyness forgotten, Ron brought her panting and moaning to exquisite, earth-shattering climax, one hand clutched in his hair, the other fisting at the sheets, her breasts heaving, his name leaving her lips…

When her body had at long last stopped trembling and pulsing, he slid back up beside her, a smug, self-satisfied expression on his face. She could feel against her inner thigh that he was hard and ready for her again, and Hermione didn't hesitate to spread her legs wider, cradling his hips against hers and allowing him to slip inside her body, despite the soreness there.

The soreness, the pain, the pleasure…it all served as a reminder that they were both still so wonderfully alive. This time they climaxed together, and while Hermione floated back down to earth, placing gentle kisses to Ron's freckle-spattered shoulder as he collapsed in exhaustion on top of her, she felt like there was no place she'd rather be.

She didn't know with any certainty what the future held, but what she did know was that she would fight next to Ron and Harry—until the very end.

By the time Harry returned to the tent, Ron and Hermione had both cleaned up, dressed, straightened up the bedclothes, and she'd passed the Horcrux on to Ron, who was now sitting at the table shuffling re-heated eggs into his mouth. "So I was thinking," he said around a mouthful of egg, "we should go somewhere a bit closer to a Muggle village—but far away from that place we were at yesterday." He shuddered visibly. "I could really go for that bacon sandwich right about now."

"Here we go again," Harry said with a sigh while Hermione laughed.

Ten minutes later, Hermione had magicked the tent back into her little bag, the enchantments were lifted from the surrounding air, and all evidence of their campsite was erased. Taking hold of one of Harry's arms and one of Ron's, she turned on the spot and Disapparated.


	5. A Message & a Vow

_This segment falls within DH_ ,  _Chapter Fifteen: The Goblin's Revenge, sometime after the trio's trip to London to visit the orphanage where Voldemort was raised._

oOo

"We've been over and over this, Harry!" Hermione exclaimed in exasperation, flinging aside the book she'd been perusing more out of boredom than in any real attempt at "research." "If You-Know-Who had hidden one of the Horcruxes in Hogwarts—"

"Dumbledore would've known," Ron cut in with an air of boredom from where he lounged on his bunk. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. So you've said about a million times already. Got any new ideas?"

Hermione shot him a withering glare, but he wasn't looking at her. He had his Deluminator out and was turning it over and over in his hand as he stared blankly at the underside of the top bunk.

"If you have any ideas of  _your own_ ," she ground out slowly through her teeth, with the air of someone talking to a rather dense five-year-old, "instead of relying on me and Harry to do all the planning, you're welcome to share. Until then, why don't you go back to doing what you do best?—whining and moaning about the lack of food."

 _Click:_ All the light was sucked from the tent.

Hermione sprang to her feet.  _"Ron Weasley, if you don't stop doing that, I swear on Merlin's saggy left testicle I'm going to shove that thing so far up your—"_

"Fine!" he shouted, and the room was flooded with light once more.  _"Fine!"_  He sat up abruptly, smacking his forehead on the underside of the top bunk.

As he staggered to his feet, clutching his forehead while emitting a string of rather creative curses, he flung the Deluminator to the ground.  _"Happy?"_ And then he stumbled out of the tent, still clutching his head and cursing like a sailor.

"Harry," Hermione said with exaggerated composure, taking a deep, calming breath. "I'm going to kill him. I really think I might just murder him."

Until about two minutes ago, she and Harry had been discussing—yet again—where they should go next. London had been a waste of time. Albania was out for obvious reasons. And although Harry was adamant about Hogwarts, Hermione simply didn't find that to be a likely location: She was convinced it would be a waste of time, just like London.

Not that this entire "mission" didn't seem one enormous waste of time.

Hermione believed that Harry had conveyed to them all the pertinent information that Dumbledore had given him, but that didn't stop her from feeling disappointed and downtrodden. It certainly didn't help the state of her morale that Ron pulled her aside at every opportunity, whispering things like, "Harry really doesn't know what he's doing, does he?"

"He never claimed to!" she snapped back on more than one occasion. "Was I originally under the impression that Dumbledore had left him more specific instructions? Yes. Am I disappointed it's now glaringly obvious that he didn't? Yes—but it's my own fault for making assumptions, Ron! Harry has never once attempted to deceive us; he never pretended to have some grand master scheme as yet unrevealed!"

When Ron was hungry, however, he was completely unreasonable—particularly when a lack of food coincided with his turn to wear the Horcrux, which made him downright spiteful at times.

Less pressing than the issue of locating the other Horcruxes, but just as important to Hermione, was her newly developed relationship with Ron, which had already begun to deteriorate due in equal parts to the fact that they were all continually exhausted, hungry, on edge, and even cold now thanks to the changing Autumn weather.

They'd barely touched in the month since they'd made love for the first time. Hermione slept in bed with him every night, but they rarely held each other, choosing instead to lay facing in opposite directions. They shared the occasional kiss when they weren't at each other's throats, but they'd been fighting more viciously than ever.

They'd made love on only two other occasions, the last a couple of weeks ago on a rarely cheerful day when their stomachs had been full, and the sun had been shining brightly through the multicolored leaves. She and Ron had set out from their current campsite on the pretense of collecting firewood, but Hermione had shrunk a quilt to take along, which she'd then lain out on the leaf-strewn forest floor. She'd made love to him slowly and leisurely that day, not caring that it might be obvious to Harry what they'd been doing when they returned.

If he'd noticed anything unusual, however, he hadn't said anything. He'd been broody, no doubt obsessing over the unknown thief from his "dreams," so Hermione had taken the Horcrux from him.

She and Ron had held each other that night, but that was the last real moment of tenderness between them that she could recall, and she held on to that moment as she contemplated murdering him in the present.

"I'll go get the Horcrux from him," Harry said with a sigh of resignation, interrupting her train of thought as he stood up from a sagging armchair.

"No," Hermione said on impulse, stopping him as he made a move to follow Ron outside. Thinking about that rare perfect day in the forest had given her a renewed longing to want to make things right with him again. She missed their moments of stolen kisses. She missed…the feeling of his hands on her body and the way he felt moving inside her—something she'd experienced exactly four times. "It should be me. I…need to make things right with him."

She felt her face flushing, but Harry merely nodded once before moving aside.

Outside, it was almost pitch black, the only light source the few stars that glittered through the thick canopy of trees above them. They'd chosen a well-covered area to stay the night, and as such the tent was wedged tightly between the trees.

"Ron?" she called into the dark as she blinked rapidly, willing her eyes to adjust.

Stepping cautiously forward as she held out her arms to avoid running into any trees or stumbling over any fallen twigs or rocks, shapes finally began to emerge from the darkness. Even still, she didn't see him until she was practically standing on top of him where he sat, his back against the base of a thick tree.

"Ron, are you all right?" she asked cautiously, fully expecting another outburst as she knelt in front of him, trying to focus on his features and wishing she hadn't left her wand in the tent. She wanted to see his eyes. "Listen, I'm sorry I shouted at you, okay? It's just that Harry and I are doing the best we can—"

"You've got that right." There was something dark in his voice that rendered it almost unrecognizable.

"And what's that supposed to mean, exactly?" she asked, sitting back on her haunches and feeling torn between confusion, anger, and shock at the implications of his words.

"You know bloody well what it means."

" _Ron_ …you're being ridiculous—"

"I'm not daft, Hermione—"

"Well, you're certainly acting that way!" She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Did he really think that she and Harry…?

"You don't snog me anymore, you hardly ever touch me, and it's been  _weeks_ since we—"

" _You_  don't do those things either, Ron! It works both ways! Does that mean I think that you and Harry are sneaking around behind  _my_ back?"

There was a brief pause before Ron responded: "Harry's a bloke, Hermione." His tone implied that  _she_  was the daft one.

Hermione took several deep breaths in an attempt to staunch the anger and hurt that was currently choking her from the inside out. "Ron," she said calmly and reasonably, "we're hungry all the time, we're cold, we're irritable, we're worried for our families, and we're all frustrated that we don't have any leads on the other Horcruxes—which doesn't exactly equate to romantic feelings. But even though we've been rowing, I've  _never once_ questioned your feelings or loyalty to me, so I find it very hurtful that you would conclude for no reason at all that Harry and I—"

"I've seen the way you are with him, how  _nurturing_  you are, and the way you always side with him—"

"I don't always side with him, and I'm just as nurturing with you!"

"When you're not biting my head off, you mean?"

She threw up her arms in exasperated disbelief. "All right. That's it, take off the locket, it's making you unreasonable—"

"No, I quite fancy it, thank you very much."

"Ron,  _take it off!_ "

"No. If you want it you'll have to come and get it." He rose to his feet then, his dark shape leaning against the tree. Again, Hermione wished she could see his face.

" _Fine,_ " she hissed, jumping to her feet as well and lunging for him—

And abruptly found herself spun around with her back pressed roughly against the tree, her wrists pinned above her head by one of his large hands, and through their clothing she could feel that he was aroused,  _very_  aroused, and was grinding himself against her stomach.

She was on the very verge of shoving him away, feeling enraged that he was hoping for sex at a time like this—when he'd practically accused her of sleeping with Harry, or, at the very least,  _fancying_  Harry—when Ron's mouth came crashing down on hers.

Her body roared to life unexpectedly, her blood surging in her veins as he kissed her roughly, demandingly, forcing her lips apart with his tongue.

 _Oh, yes…_  She'd missed this, and she hadn't even realized just quite how much.

Without making a conscious decision to do so, she found herself kissing him in return, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and he growled— _literally growled_ —as he responded by bringing up his free hand and ripping open her blouse. Buttons went flying everywhere, swallowed by the darkness, but in that moment it didn't matter. Nothing mattered to her except getting Ron inside her body—as soon as possible.

"Ron," she groaned, trying to tug her hands free. She wanted to touch him.

"Nuh-uh," he responded as he shoved her bra up above her breasts before dipping his head down, drawing her sensitive peaks into his mouth none too gently. Just as her head lolled back, a moan of pleasure escaping her lips, her eyes focused on the tent with light spilling from its open flap, not twenty feet away, and she saw a shadow disappearing back inside.

"Ron," she whispered as he continued his pleasurable torture of her breasts, "Harry can hear us."

"Good," he replied as he changed tactics, shoving her jeans and knickers down her hips and legs in one fell swoop. Somehow one of her shoes came off, and her now freed leg was hiked high over his hip, supported by his arm, which was braced against the bark by her head. She didn't even feel the cold sting of the night air on her naked skin or the rough bark of the tree on her bare backside, and thoughts of Harry and propriety were whisked from her mind.

Only to free himself from his jeans did Ron finally release her hands, which immediately flew to the hem of his shirt, finding the flesh of his stomach as she marveled at the feeling of silky skin over taut muscle. She wanted to pull his shirt over his head, but she could feel the hot head of his length already nudging impatiently at her center.

He moaned when he felt how slick and ready she was for him. "I  _want_  him to hear us," Ron growled into her ear, his voice strange somehow. "I don't want there to be any doubt in his mind about us."

And then he slid inside her an inch at a time, stretching her, filling her, completing her, and it was so good, so  _good_ …

" _Ron,"_ she moaned as he began moving inside of her, and her other leg was abruptly hiked over his hip as well. Her ankles crossed around his waist as he began pumping in earnest, his fists braced on either side of her head for leverage.

His lips were on hers again feverishly, and she panted against his mouth as his hips jackhammered wildly against her body, sending her hurtling closer to a climax with each frenzied thrust. "Tell me how good it is, 'Ermione," he grunted against her ear.

" _So good,"_ she moaned raggedly, her face burrowing into his shoulder.

"Prove it, sweetheart. Come for me."

It only took a few more rapid plunges, and Hermione literally screamed his name again and again as her body was rocked by the most deeply powerful orgasm of her life; her nerve endings were on fire as her toes curled with the intensity of it and her blood thundered in her ears.

Ron let out a roar of his own while he began thrusting more erratically than ever, and then his whole body stiffened as he pumped inside her, releasing his seed deep inside her womb. Hermione's name was a breathy litany on his tongue as his climax seemed to go on and on and on until he was finally left spent, trembling as his head collapsed on her breast.

Just as she brought a hand up to thread in his hair, Ron straightened, pulling out of her gently and taking a step back as her legs slipped from around his waist, her feet finding the forest floor. His hot fluids spilled down her thighs then, and she had to brace herself against the tree when her knees almost buckled.

"Thanks, Hermione," Ron said, his breathing still shaky as she heard him tugging his zipper back up. It occurred to her that she was almost completely naked while he was still fully dressed. "I really needed that. I feel a lot better."

She felt cold suddenly, and it had nothing to do the night air that was currently pricking at her naked flesh. There was something in his voice…it wasn't cold, exactly, but oddly casual. Like she'd brought him a sandwich, or a mug of hot cocoa.

She leaned down, pulling her pants back up and hating the stickiness on her thighs, feeling oddly numb. Ron retrieved her shoe and handed it to her, but he didn't say anything as she slid it back on, straightened her bra, and clutched her shirt closed. He didn't move to kiss her or hug her. He merely gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder and a "see you inside" before turning and marching back toward the tent.

_Thanks, Hermione. I really needed that._

He may as well have said,  _Thanks, mate._  Or  _Thanks, friend. Thanks, pal. Thanks, buddy._  All of the above would've sufficed.

She simply stood there for several minutes, her mind whirring, not even noticing the cold. What had just happened? One minute they'd been arguing over Harry, and the next they'd been making love. Or maybe, she thought with a hard knot in her stomach, that hadn't been lovemaking at all. Maybe they'd simply shared a quick, friendly shag.

The term "friends with benefits" popped into her head abruptly. And the uglier phrase, "fuck buddy," that she'd heard Fred or George use once. Is that what Ron thought? That she was his whore now? That she'd just spread her legs for him whenever and wherever he fancied getting his rocks off?

 _Well, you just did just that, didn't you?_ she reminded herself. Ron had pinned her to a tree, and she'd let her hormones take over from there.

The tears began pouring down her face as she thought about the first time they'd had sex, a mere month ago—yet it seemed like a memory from another lifetime. Ron had been tender afterward. He'd insisted on pleasuring her. He'd told her she was amazing and gorgeous and that he loved her.

What had changed? Once more, she thought of Ron throwing accusations about Harry in her face.

When had she become one of those stupid girls? One of those girls who allowed some boy to have power over her emotions? If she was going to admit the truth to herself, however, she'd always allowed Ron to control her emotions, hadn't she? Years before sex had complicated things.

"Hermione?"

She started at the sound of Harry's cautious but concerned voice. She'd been so lost in thought that she hadn't even noticed him emerge from the tent, lit wand in hand.

She shook her head and stared down resolutely at the ground as she walked past him, clutching her shirt together and hiding her tear-streaked face. She knew it was rude, but she hoped Harry understood that she simply couldn't talk to him at the moment. All she wanted was to take a shower, to wash Ron's scent and bodily fluids from her skin. She felt used—used, dirtied, soiled, tainted.

A single light was still on inside the tent as she marched through it, not daring to look at Ron. She could see him back on his bunk out of the corner of her eye, but she didn't want to see him not bother to look up. She couldn't stand to think he'd intentionally hurt her so badly or that he'd purposely be callous.

Hermione stood beneath the ever-replenishing hot water for a good twenty minutes, but she still didn't feel clean enough. The water couldn't wash away the fact that she felt contaminated, and it certainly couldn't wash away the soreness between her legs—an ugly reminder.

She dried and dressed as quickly as possible, again ignoring Ron as she exited the tent once more and plopped down in the leaves next to Harry. She didn't look at him as she opened up  _Hogwarts, A History_  in her lap. She could use the distraction.

"I'll take over the watch, Harry," she said in her best I-Won't-Tolerate-Any-Argument voice. "Go and lie down." And then she began to read, not taking in a single word of it, no matter how many times she restarted the first paragraph.

Harry didn't budge from his spot, and she could literally feel his concerned eyes boring into her. Then he aimed his wand toward the open mouth of the tent and muttered, " _Muffliato._ " He turned his eyes back to her. "H—"

"I'm not interested in discussing it," she stated firmly, talking over him.

"He loves you," Harry blurted before she could cut him off again. "Ron loves you. I know it for a fact."

She continued to stare at the page as the words bled together. If she looked at Harry and saw the truth and sympathy in his expression, she knew she'd burst into tears. "Then why does he do this to me?" she breathed quickly, willing herself not to cry.

"I…" Harry hesitated. "I don't really know what happened. I could hear you arguing, and I was going to check on you, and then, er…" His voice trailed off, and Hermione didn't have to look at him to know he was just as embarrassed and red-faced as she was. "And anyway," he said in a quick rush of breath, "Ron came back in, and you didn't…"

"It was a message to you," she said, the bitterness in her tone as clear as day. "He seems to be under the impression that we, as in you and I, are…well, I don't know what he thinks, exactly. Either that I simply prefer you to him, or that we're actually…" She shook her head as Harry let off a string of curses. "At any rate, that was his way of proving a point."

"He's off his rocker!" Harry proclaimed when Hermione finally looked up at him. "That's completely mental. He's seriously losing it. I think maybe we should limit the amount of time he has the Horcrux—or not let him wear it at all."

She shook her head. "He wouldn't give it to me. And anyway, it's a convenient excuse for his bad behavior, isn't it? What about the way he's treated me over the years? He didn't have a Horcrux last year when he decided it'd be a good idea to glue his face to Lavender's for three months straight— _after_ I'd asked him to Slughorn's party and he'd more or less accepted. He didn't have one in fourth year when he decided he only wanted me for his date when he couldn't get anyone else, and had the gall to be angry at  _me_  that Viktor beat him to the punch. He didn't have one—"

"Blimey, Hermione," Harry interrupted her, "I know you've had your rows, and he can be a bit immature, but he  _does_ love you. I see the way he looks at you, the way he's  _always_  looked at you, even when you didn't notice..."

She sighed as she shut the book with a  _thump_. There was no way she could concentrate on reading anyway. "It's not going to happen again," she vowed. "I won't allow myself to be… _used_  like that." She paused, hesitating, before plowing on: "He thanked me afterward. He  _thanked_  me, Harry, like I brought him a…a bacon sandwich or something. But it wasn't a sandwich I served him, was it?—just my body and my heart, which I handed over on a silver platter."

Harry obviously didn't know what to say to that, so he instead stared down at the leaves on the ground, an appropriately sympathetic expression on his face.

"Like I said, it won't happen again. I won't be made a fool again—or a whore—not even for Ron." She paused once more. "Life would be so much easier if we could choose who we love, wouldn't it?"

"You're not a whore, Hermione," he said quietly. "Nobody thinks that."

"No, I've only been made to  _feel_  that way—by the man who, according to you, loves me."

"Believe me," Harry said slowly, hesitantly, "apart from you, I know better than anyone what a juvenile git he is at times, but I  _know_  Ron, and I know he's a good bloke at heart; he's got…values and honor. He just…doesn't always make good decisions, is all. He doesn't always think before he acts or says something stupid—"

"It doesn't even matter," she said briskly, her tone heavily implying that she wasn't going to sit there and listen to him justify Ron's behavior. "This whole thing, this—," she gestured vaguely between the tent and herself, "—whatever it is between me and him, it's over. I'm done. And it's all very meaningless and trite in the larger scheme of things, isn't it? This entire conversation is a waste of energy when we should all be focusing on locating the other Horcruxes."

She opened her book once more and stuck her nose in it, refusing to look at Harry a moment longer, a none too subtle statement that the conversation had come to a close. After several moments of silence, he reached out and squeezed her hand once briefly before disappearing back inside the tent, from which could be heard Ron's loud snores.

It was only then that Hermione allowed herself to cry.

Early that morning, when she was finally curled up in the bunk that had been hers prior to sharing with Ron, something occurred to her—something imperative that she shouldn't have missed: In the midst of all the drama, she hadn't realized that she'd completely forgotten about the Contraception Charm.

Fresh tears running down her face, she sat back up in bed and aimed her wand at her belly, muttering the words even though she knew that it was too late. The book from which she'd gotten the spell had stated specifically that it wasn't intended to be used as an emergency form of birth control: For the spell to be truly effective, it was meant to be administered prior to intercourse.

Getting up in the dark and tiptoeing to her bag—Ron was huddled up in the entrance—Hermione brought it to her bed, lighting her wand beneath her covers as she dug around and found what she was looking for: a little day planner that she hadn't looked at in weeks. She'd completely lost track of the days of the month. She wasn't even sure what day of the week it was…

After several minutes, she determined that it was roughly October 15, and she reckoned her last monthly cycle had started approximately two weeks ago. She remembered because she'd woken up to fresh blood the day after she and Ron been intimate in the woods…

She paused at that thought.  _Two weeks ago._ Feeling slightly panicked, she studied the planner, counting the days, finally concluding that she should be ovulating… _now_. Or within the next day or two, at any rate.

All there was to do now was to wait it out. If her period didn't come in the next two or three weeks, she thought reasonably, well, she'd decide what to do from there…


	6. A Departure

_This segment should be read in lieu of DH p.305 – 310, first edition, printed in the U.S.A, Chapter Fifteen: The Goblin's Revenge. I've merely altered a bit of the dialogue here toward the end of the segment._

oOo

Hermione could hardly contain her exhilaration as she and Harry animatedly exchanged ideas about where Dumbledore could possibly have hidden the sword of Gryffindor. Learning that the sword, which had been impregnated with basilisk venom, could destroy Horcruxes was the most exciting lead they'd had in months; it had driven everything else from her mind, including her strained relationship with Ron, which had been rocky at best over the past three days.

"The Shrieking Shack?" Harry suggested while Hermione literally bounced up and down in elation. "Nobody ever goes in there."

"But Snape knows how to get in, wouldn't that be a bit risky?"

"Dumbledore trusted Snape," Harry reminded her.

"Not enough to tell him that he swapped the swords."

"Yeah, you're right!" said Harry, and she could tell by the look in his eyes that he was pleased by the idea that Dumbledore had held  _some_  reservations about Snape. "So, will he have hidden the sword well away from Hogsmeade, then? What d'you reckon, Ron? Ron?"

Hermione looked around at the same moment as Harry, feeling perplexed. She hadn't noticed him leave the tent.

As her eyes followed Harry's, however, she caught sight of Ron lying in his bunk, and the expression on his face caused an inexplicable knot to form in the pit of her stomach—the same feeling she'd had three nights ago when she'd realized that Ron had used her.

"Oh, remembered me, have you?" he snarled, and his voice was dark, just as it had been that night.  _The locket_ , she realized, but then she thought of herself saying to Harry,  _It's a convenient excuse for his bad behavior, isn't it?_

"What?" Harry replied, perplexity in his voice.

Ron snorted derisively, his eyes still trained on the underside of the top bunk. "You two carry on. Don't let me spoil your fun."

Harry looked at her for help, but Hermione merely shook her head, a feeling of dread constricting her heart. She really hoped this conversation wasn't going where she thought it was going.

"What's the problem?" asked Harry.

"Problem? There's no problem. Not according to you, anyway." He refused to look at either of them.

"Well you've obviously got a problem," replied Harry. "Spit it out, will you?"

Ron swung his legs off the bed then and sat up, the expression on his face contemptuous, and yet again Hermione was reminded how Ron had been three nights ago. Even though she hadn't seen his face that night, there had been that same air of cold scorn and accusation about him.

"All right, I'll spit it out," he snarled. "Don't expect me to skip up and down the tent because there's some other damn thing we've got to find. Just add it to the list of stuff you don't know."

Hermione cringed at Ron's words, her eyes flashing to Harry.

"I don't know?" Harry repeated, a pained expression on his face. " _I_ don't know?"

As Harry and Ron faced each other, their bodies tense, twin expressions of something nearly resembling hatred upon their faces, Hermione wanted to sob. She'd known that Harry had feared that they—she and Ron—had been thinking exactly what Ron was saying, and she'd also feared that this would happen: That Ron would finally let it boil to the surface.

She was only vaguely aware of the rain that was now plunking on the tent, and the heavens poured down its grief upon them; it represented the tears that she was barely suppressing.

"It's not like I'm not having the time of my life here," Ron was now saying, "you know, with my arm mangled and nothing to eat and freezing my backside off every night. I just hoped, you know, after we'd been running round a few weeks, we'd have achieved something."

"Ron," Hermione whispered, her voice barely audible over the rain pattering on the tent. She wanted him to stop. She wanted this whole mess to stop. She just wanted them to go back to normal—the way they'd been before this rambling, endless journey.

"I thought you knew what you'd signed up for," said Harry when Ron ignored her.

"Yeah, I thought I did, too."

"So what part of it isn't living up to your expectations?" asked Harry angrily. "Did you think we'd be staying in five-star hotels? Finding a Horcrux every other day? Did you think you'd be back to Mummy by Christmas?"

"We thought you know what you were doing!" Ron shouted as he sprang to his feet, and Harry visibly recoiled. "We thought Dumbledore had told you what to do! We thought you had a real plan!"

"Ron!" Hermione yelled, desperate for him to stop. She had a childish urge to clamp her hands over her ears and squeeze her eyes shut.

"Well, sorry to let you down," Harry said, his voice strangely calm. "I've been straight with you from the start. I told you everything that Dumbledore told me. And in case you haven't noticed, we found one Horcrux—"

"Yeah, and we're about as near getting rid of it as we are to finding the rest of them—nowhere effing near, in other words!"

"Take off the locket, Ron," Hermione said, desperately wanting to believe that it would help—that it would make everything right again. "Please take it off. You wouldn't be talking like this if you hadn't been wearing it all day."

"Yeah, he would," Harry said, and she knew he was thinking about the conversation they'd had the other night. "D'you think I haven't noticed the two of you whispering behind my back? D'you think I didn't guess you were thinking this stuff?"

"Harry," Hermione said, feeling stunned, "we weren't—"

"Don't lie!" Ron bellowed, rounding on her. "You said it too, you said you were disappointed, you said you'd thought he had a bit more to go on than—"

"I didn't say it like that—Harry, I didn't!" she wailed, tears pouring down her face as the rain continued to pound on the tent. She couldn't believe that it had only been minutes before when she'd felt so jubilant, but that feeling of triumph had been sucked away as though a dementor had swooped down over the tent, leaving something cold and dark in its place. Hermione shivered, her arms hugging herself subconsciously.

She clearly heard Ron's voice saying casually,  _Thanks, Hermione. I really needed that._

"So why are you still here?" Harry asked Ron.

"Search me."

"Go home then."

"Yeah, maybe I will!" Ron replied, and Hermione felt alarmed when he stepped closer to Harry, who held his ground. "Didn't you hear what they said about my sister? But you don't give a rat's fart, do you, it's only the Forbidden Forest, Harry  _I've-Faced-Worse_ Potter doesn't care what happens to her in here—well, I do, all right, giant spiders and mental stuff—"

"I was only saying—she was with the others, they were with Hagrid—"

"Yeah, I get it, you don't care! And what about the rest of my family, 'the Weasleys don't need another kid injured,' did you hear that?"

"Yeah, I—"

"Not bothered what it meant, though?"

"Ron!" shouted Hermione as she put herself bodily between them. She'd had enough. She didn't know what was going on with him, but she would put an end to this nonsense. "I don't think it means anything new has happened," she said reasonably, "anything we don't know about; think, Ron, Bill's already scarred, plenty of people must have seen that George has lost an ear by now, and you're supposed to be on your deathbed with spattergroit, I'm sure that's all he meant—"

"Oh, you're sure, are you? Right then, well, I won't bother myself about them. It's all right for you two, isn't it, with your parents safely out of the way—"

"My parents are  _dead_!" Harry bellowed.

"And mine could be going the same way!"

"Then GO!" Harry roared, and Hermione recoiled slightly. "Go back to them, pretend you've got over your spattergroit and Mummy'll be able to feed you up and—"

What happened next seemed to occur in slow motion: She saw Ron move for his wand, but Hermione was quicker. " _Protego!"_ she shouted as Harry went for his own, and an invisible force field erupted from her wand tip, forcing them all backward several steps; Ron was on one side of the barrier, she and Harry on the other.

She watched as Ron and Harry glared at each other, and that knot in her stomach tightened as she realized that this couldn't be fixed. Their relationship had gone sour, and this wasn't something that Hermione could fix with a wave of her wand.

"Leave the Horcrux." Harry was the first to break the silence, his voice cold.

Ron yanked it from over his head and launched it into a nearby chair before rounding on Hermione once more. "Now's your chance to tell me the truth."

"What do you mean?"

"Are you shagging him, too?"

He might've slapped her. She stared at him, aghast. Next to her Harry was silent, and she knew he was just as shocked as Hermione felt.

"Of course you are," Ron said with a scornful laugh, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

" _What?_  Ron, no—"

"No, it's okay, I get it—he's Harry effin' Potter. Me, well, I'm just the bumbling sidekick, right? All I get is a few pity fucks when he's the one you really want."

"Ron, no—please—come back, come back!"

Ron turned and stormed into the night, and when Hermione moved to follow him she was impeded by her own Shield Charm. She removed it hastily and ran out after him; the rain was coming down in heavy torrents, and Hermione was blinded by the rain and her own tears as she groped about, calling his name. She thought she saw a flash a movement by the darkened trees, but by the time she reached him he was long gone.

She stood there for several minutes, feeling shocked, unaware of the icy rain that was soaking her to the core, plastering her hair and clothes to her body as she heard Ron's voice:  _All I get is a few pity fucks when he's the one you really want._

At long last, Hermione turned around and forced her rubbery legs to move, making her way mechanically back to the warmth of the tent. "He's g-g-gone! Disapparated!" Then she threw herself into a chair, curled up, and began to cry.

She was dimly aware that Harry had thrown blankets over her, but all she could think was,  _He's gone. He's gone._


	7. A Confession

_This segment falls within DH_ ,  _Chapter Sixteen: Godric's Hollow, just prior to Harry and Hermione's decision to visit the village where Harry survived Voldemort's Killing Curse._

oOo

Two weeks went by, and then a month.

Hermione had never gotten her period. She'd tried to reason with herself that her loss of a menstrual cycle could very well have to do with the fact that she'd lost so much weight. Already rather thin prior to this journey, she was now positively skeletal. Standing naked in the cramped bathroom, she'd studied the way her hip bones and ribs jutted out sickeningly from her skin—just a thin layer of flesh covering her bones.

Her weight loss, of course, was due to the fact that even when she and Harry were relatively well-fed—which was quite rare—she couldn't keep anything down. She was sick several times a day, every day, and when her belly was empty, she dry heaved. She tried to convince herself that it wasn't morning sickness, which she decided was a misnomer, given that she was sick mostly in the evenings.

Harry was concerned about her, but she let him think that she was sick with grief over Ron—which wasn't far from the truth, actually. She mourned for his absence as if he'd died, and the idea that she might never see him again was a very real possibility that kept her up late at night, sobbing as Harry slept.

After all, how long could she and Harry continue to elude capture? They were no closer to locating the other Horcruxes—or Gryffindor's sword—than they'd been two months ago, and while they Apparated aimlessly from location to location every day, Voldemort was gaining power, growing stronger.

She no longer believed in her heart that they would survive this, which made the possibility of an unplanned pregnancy all the more undesirable. Even if, by some miracle, she survived to carry a pregnancy to term, what would become of her baby in this world where Muggle-borns were hunted like animals?

"Hermione?"

She jumped, startled, at the knock on the bathroom door, and she could hear in his voice that he thought she was sick again. "I'll be out in a minute," she called, making a solid effort to keep the quaver out of her voice.

"Okay," he replied, obviously unconvinced. "Dinner's ready whenever you're ready to eat." The kindness and sympathy in his voice nearly made her burst into tears.

"Thanks, Harry!" She made a noble attempt to sound cheerful. They'd had an unusualy nice day today, after all. She and Harry had decided to visit the nearby Muggle village to obtain food, but they'd lingered for a couple of hours, disguised by Polyjuice Potion.

They'd listened to Christmas carolers in the snow-covered square; they'd peered into shop windows, which were twinkling with garland and lights, the displays showcasing electronics and books and toys and trinkets of every variety. Harry had even suggested they visit the bookstore, which had been a very pleasant, rare treat.

Hermione would've lingered longer, except that she'd gotten sick. She'd bolted out of the shop, barely making it in time before retching and dry heaving violently, bent over the muddy, slushy pavement. Harry had placed his hand on her back awkwardly, and when she'd finally straightened, muttering that she was all right, he'd suggested they get what they came for and get back to the campsite.

Hermione had agreed.

After donning the Invisibility Cloak, she'd gone into the local grocer/drugstore. What Harry didn't know was that she'd obtained more than just food: On a last minute decision, she'd grabbed a plastic bottle of over-the-counter prenatal vitamins and a pregnancy test. She'd also taken more food than she normally would've risked, shoving items at random into her bag beneath the Cloak. She'd taken several jugs of milk after Confunding a group of Muggles who'd been chattering in front of the refrigerated case.

It had been risky, but if she really was pregnant, she needed to try to put some weight back on, and she needed better nutrition than what stale biscuits could provide.

She'd guessed at the total cost, dropping a wad of money into an open till as she passed.

Now, only an hour or so later, she sat on the toilet that was crammed in between the solitary shower stall and the canvas wall of the magically enhanced tent. Her head was in her hands as she breathed deeply in and out, trying to control her nerves.

The little piece of seemingly harmless plastic that was to determine her fate was behind her, perched on the back of the toilet. She'd been sitting there for more than ten minutes, working up her nerve.

_Woman up, Hermione,_ she told herself.  _Either you are or you aren't. Delaying the inevitable isn't going to change the results._

As calmly as she could, she reached around, grabbing the plastic cylindrical object and holding it up in front of her face: The results were no less than what she'd expected, but she suddenly felt cold, numb inside at having the undeniable proof in front of her.

Positive. The results, in the form of a little pink plus sign, were positive.

This didn't happen to intelligent women, she told herself. Unplanned pregnancies didn't happen to women like Hermione, who were familiar with their cycles and took precautions and never made a decision without weighing the consequences first. This only happened to girls who were reckless and impulsive, who thought with their hormones rather than their brains.

She thought back to all those months ago—which felt like years—to Grimmauld Place, when she'd first seriously contemplated a physical relationship with Ron. This was the very reason she'd resisted the temptation to give into her desire in the first place. She'd told herself then that she wouldn't leave Harry for anything—not even in the event of this outcome.

And now, with Ron gone—she choked on a sob at the thought—she couldn't simply abandon Harry to his fate. He needed her now more than ever. Hermione was very aware that he feared that she would, at any moment, announce that she was leaving him, too. He watched her sometimes, a look of dread in his eyes, like he was waiting for it.

Pregnant or not, she couldn't do that to him. She had no idea what she was ultimately going to do, but while she was still physically capable of helping Harry, she would. After all, she was pregnant, not handicapped, and seeing how it was still early in her pregnancy—counting from her last menstrual cycle, which was how Muggle doctors measured pregnancy, she was eight weeks along—she estimated she still had a good five months before she would be rendered physically unfit.

In the meantime, she would accelerate her efforts to locate the sword and the Horcruxes. Perhaps she'd suggest to Harry that they take a trip to Godric's Hollow. After all, the more she thought about it, the more sense it made to her that Dumbledore might've hidden the sword there.

She washed her face and shoved the pregnancy test into her jeans pocket before stepping out of the bathroom. The scent of spaghetti Bolognese wafting from the kitchen simultaneously sickened her and made her stomach grumble longingly at the prospect of nourishment.

"You sure you're all right?" Harry asked where he stood in front of the table setting out napkins and silverware.

She forced a smile and a nod as she moved mechanically to her bag and pulled out one of the milk jugs—she'd cast a charm to keep the perishable items cold—ignoring Harry's raised eyebrow while moving back to the table and pouring them both a glass. She'd never before taken anything as large as a gallon of milk.

"Oh, yeah," Harry said several minutes into their meal, gulping down a mouthful of pear. "I thought we could take a break from wearing the Horcrux for a few hours. Figured it'd do us both some good."

"Good idea," Hermione replied, swallowing a birdlike bite. Though her stomach grumbled for the nourishment, she ate tentatively, very aware that at any moment—

It struck as if on cue. She sprang up from the table, nearly upturning it and spilling both Harry's milk glass and hers, and rushed out the tent, the contents of her dinner spilling onto the freshly fallen snow. Harry followed her and silently held back her hair, which she knew he was becoming accustomed to.

She fell back against the canvas wall several minutes later, sobbing, as Harry magicked away the mess she'd left on the snow. Moments later a glass was pressed into her hands, and she drank deeply around uncontrollable sobs as Harry knelt next to her in the snow.

"Tell me the truth, Hermione," he said quietly. "Are you pregnant? Is that why you've been so ill?"

She sobbed even harder at his words, at the knowledge that he'd known, that she hadn't been fooling him. She felt oddly relieved by the idea that he knew: that she didn't carry the burden alone. Wordlessly and without looking at him, while she continued to cry into her knees, she withdrew the pregnancy test with the little pink plus sign out of her pocket and handed it to him.

Harry didn't say a word for several long, drawn-out moments, and Hermione didn't dare chance a glance at him. "I'm so s-s-sorry, Harry!" she sobbed. "I didn't mean it to happen! I—I was careful!" But that wasn't entirely true, though, was it? "E—except for that last time!"

She knew that Harry would know what she meant: three nights before Ron's departure.

"Hermione…," he finally said, "that's…this is… I mean…"

His voice trailed off, and Hermione didn't have to look at him to know that he was torn on what the polite response would be: whether he should congratulate her or express his condolences. After all, an unplanned teen pregnancy wasn't desirable in the best of times, and their present circumstances were about as dismal as they could possibly be.

"I won't abandon you, Harry," she said abruptly, her voice determined as she sat up, attempting to stifle her sobs as she wiped at her tear-streaked face with the backs of her sleeves. "I don't…I don't know what I'm going to do yet, but I won't just leave you out here by yourself."

"Hermione…," he started again, slowly, "you need…proper care. We're half starving and freezing out here. You've been losing weight…"

She could see in his face that he was torn. On the one hand, he'd been dreading the circumstance of her leaving, and on the other, she knew that Harry's main concern in a situation such as this would be Hermione's own health and wellbeing.

"No, Harry—no," she protested adamantly, shaking her head. "I nicked enough food at that grocer to last us a week—it was rather easier than you'd think," she added at the astonished look on his face. "All it took was a Memory Charm or two. And—and I got some vitamin supplements from the drug aisle. I reckon we can get away with that every week, as long as we keep changing areas and we're not conspicuous about it."

"That's not good enough, Hermione. What about seeing a Healer to check that everything's all right?"

"Considering that I'm probably as wanted as you are by now, Harry, I can hardly go waltzing into a Wizarding clinic, now can I? Besides the fact that I'm a Mudblood, it's no secret that we're friends."

He looked exasperated. "It's freezing out here," he said abruptly, apparently realizing that she was shivering, her arms clutched about her body. "Let's finish discussing this inside."

She wordlessly agreed, and a few moments later she was settled into her favorite armchair, a blanket from Ron's bunk wrapped about her. It still smelled like him, and she took comfort in that.

"A doctor then," Harry said as he zipped up the tent tight and plopped down into the chair that had become "his."

"I'll agree to see a Muggle doctor if you accept that I'm staying. I'll disguise myself, make an appointment under another identity, and alter the staff's memories on my way out. Their computers will indicate that they saw a patient that no one will remember, but it'll be written off as a mistake."

"That sounds like a good plan," Harry said slowly, "but what about in a few months? You can hardly help me hunt for Horcruxes when you're eight, nine months pregnant, Hermione. And where are you planning on having the baby? And what happens after?"

She shook her head, biting her lower lip as she considered the dilemma. She imagined, absurdly, trying to run from Death Eaters with a belly the size of a bowling ball. Then she pictured going into labor in this very tent, with Harry the only person to help her. "Of course, we're operating under the assumption that we won't have collected all the Horcruxes, destroyed them, and defeated You-Know-Who by that time—"

"Considering the rate we're going, I'd say that's a fair assumption to make, Hermione."

"I can go away—but just for a couple of months," she said, ignoring his comment. "We'll work out the details later, but when I'm so pregnant that I've become a burden, I'll go away to have the baby." She swallowed hard, tears rising in her eyes. "I'll go to Australia and give her to my parents. I'll adjust their memories again. They'll think that adopting a baby is their other lifelong ambition, since they weren't able to have one of their own. And then you can meet me at a predetermined time and place."

The tears streamed down her face as she pictured herself handing a swaddled, red-haired newborn over to the loving arms of her mother and father.

"You'd—you'd give up your baby?" Harry's voice was astounded, and she heard a hint of the same accusation that had been in his voice when Lupin had announced to them that he wanted to leave his own wife and unborn child to accompany Harry.

"I haven't got a choice, do I?" she whispered. "She'll be the offspring of a Mudblood and a blood traitor, Harry. As long as You-Know-Who lives, she won't be safe. No one will. So I  _have_  to come back and help you—I have to do it for my baby, so that she won't grow up knowing prejudice and oppression." She paused. "I'll come back for her…assuming I live. If not…"

"What about—?"

" _Ron?"_  she said scathingly, the first time she'd uttered his name since he'd walked out on them. "He abandoned us, didn't he? He abandoned  _me_."

"Hermione," he said gently, "he didn't know, how could he? If he had, he'd never have—"

"That doesn't matter!" she exclaimed. "I wouldn't want him staying with me out of a sense of obligation because he knocked me up!"

Harry stared at her, at a loss for words as she took a deep breath, attempting to calm her raging emotions.

"Besides," she added after a moment, her tone decidedly more composed, "I can't believe that you would still defend him after the things he said to you, the things he said to both of us."

They lapsed into silence at that, wordlessly agreeing not to speak of Ron anymore.

"'She?'" Harry said after a moment.

"What? Oh." She smiled slightly then, the first time she'd smiled in weeks. "Yes, well, that sounds much better than 'it,' wouldn't you say?"

"Come up with any names yet?"

"I've always thought the name 'Rose' was lovely," she replied, omitting the fact that she'd gotten the name from the movie  _Titanic_ , which was the last film she'd watched prior to their journey. "Simple, but elegant. For a boy, well, my maternal grandfather's name is 'Michael'—but there are quite a few _Michaels_ in the world, aren't there?—and my paternal grandfather is 'Hugo,' which is much more distinctive…"

Hermione chattered away about baby names for several more minutes while Harry listened, responding and interjecting wherever appropriate, and by the time she was done she felt lighter, more like herself, than she had in months.

When he went to go clear off the table and magic the dishes clean, Hermione took out  _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_  and  _Spellman's Syllabary._ She'd just remembered that there was something she wanted to check…


	8. A Release

_This segment falls within DH_ ,  _Chapter Eighteen: The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore._

oOo

Godric's Hollow had been an absolute catastrophe, and both she and Harry had nearly lost their lives.

Hermione knew she should've felt grateful to still be alive, but instead she felt sickened at the idea that Harry hated her for inadvertently destroying his wand. Although he'd never want to hurt her feelings, she hadn't missed the look in his eyes as she'd handed over her own wand so that he could keep watch. His desire to get away from her had been plain as day.

If only she'd been able to kill the snake…it might've made it all worthwhile.

Unable to fight her exhaustion any longer, she reluctantly crawled into Ron's bunk, closing her eyes and crying into the pillow that still smelled like him, images of their disastrous excursion running rampant through her mind: She saw the snow-covered graveyard where both Harry's family and Dumbledore's were buried. She saw the ruined cottage where Harry's parents had been murdered when he was only a baby. She saw the dirty, putrid house that Voldemort's snake had lured them to—and it had been so easy, hadn't it? They'd wanted  _so desperately_ to believe that Dumbledore had intended them to go there.

But Dumbledore hadn't left them anything but straws to grasp at. She and Harry were nothing more than two teenagers groping blindly in the dark, utterly alone, lucky to have managed to survive this long.

Hermione burrowed further into Ron's pillow, attempting to immerse herself in his scent, as she recalled how she and Harry had barely escaped Bathilda's house: Harry had pulled them through the smashed window as the great snake had reared to strike, and just before she'd Disapparated them both in midair, she'd glimpsed the horrible visage of  _him_ peering down at them, his grotesque slit of a mouth twisted in rage…

She recalled afterward when Harry had been ill, twisting unnaturally, a high, cold voice issuing from his lips that wasn't his own…

Hermione finally drifted into a broken, restless sleep, plagued by disturbing, terrifying dreams: She saw her parents resting beneath the snow-covered graveyard next to Harry's, their flesh rotting from their bones before her eyes. She saw Harry and Ron at the bottom of a lake that greatly resembled the Black Lake at Hogwarts, and they were struggling for air, drowning, their eyes bulging in their heads, and Hermione tried desperately to reach them, tried to help them, but no matter how hard she swam, their fingers remained just out of her grasp…

She saw herself giving birth in the very center of a circle of masked Death Eaters. They were chanting in a language that she didn't recognize, and dreadfully, horrifyingly, she realized that, as a terrible agony ripped through her body, it wasn't a baby coming out of her, but a great black snake, uncoiling and slithering from between her parted, bloodied thighs.

Hermione screamed in terror and revulsion, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out a high, cold, endlessly cruel laugh…

She awoke abruptly, sickened, sweat beading on her forehead, and vomited over the side of the bunk. After cleaning up the mess hastily, she stumbled to her bag and took out the glossy little black and white sonogram picture. She clutched it between trembling, sweaty fingers, trying to take comfort in the blurry mass that looked to be roughly the size and shape of a bean. She consoled herself that it was developmentally normal for a young fetus—just as the doctor had said.

She closed her eyes briefly, taking a deep, relaxing breath.

It wasn't a snake growing inside her, but a regular human baby: a baby that she and Ron had created. (Briefly, Hermione thought of Ron holding her and whispering that he loved her, followed by a flash of the cold accusation in his eyes before he'd stormed out into the rain:  _Now's your chance to tell me the truth. Are you shagging him, too?_ )

She reminded herself that her mum and dad were safe in Australia, not decomposing beneath the cold ground. Harry was just outside the tent, where the sun was on the verge of rising, and Ron…well, she didn't know where Ron was. She didn't know whether he was safe. She'd reluctantly asked Harry a week ago whether his dot had shown back up on the Marauder's Map, and the fact that it hadn't left a sinking, dreadful feeling in the pit of her stomach. She didn't know why he wasn't back in school with Ginny, but she refused to entertain the idea that something bad had happened to him.

Hermione placed the picture on the small sink as she began making tea with trembling hands, trying vainly to force back tears. To distract herself from thoughts of Voldemort, Death Eaters, Harry's anger, and Ron's accusations as she busied herself, she thought about the trip she and Harry had made to a random Muggle clinic in London a week ago.

They had agreed that the hustle and bustle of a busy city doctor's office would render her much less memorable than had they chosen a village doctor. People noticed strangers in small villages, after all…

oOo

"Why can't you just use the Polyjuice?" Harry asked prior to the trip, as she aimed her wand at her head, changing her brown hair a sandy shade of blonde. Next, she turned her eyes blue.

It was the morning after she'd taken the pregnancy test and agreed, at Harry's insistence, to see a doctor. Eager to prepare for their excursion to Godric's Hollow, Hermione wanted to get this out of the way as quickly as possible.

"It's  _me_ that we want checked out," she replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "not some random Muggle." Turning her head this way and that, she studied the overall effect. It was too bad that it wasn't so easy to tame the bushy texture of her hair.  _That_  required her Sleakeasy potion, which she hadn't thought to bring. As it was, she looked a bit like a little surfer girl from a 1960's Hollywood film. "So what do you think?" she asked, turning toward him. "I'm Maddie Spencer, nineteen years old, university student."

"You look brilliant… _Maddie_ ," Harry declared as she stood up and gave a little twirl. "Never imagined you as a blonde before, though, it suits you."

"Yes, well, don't get too used to it," she replied with a shy smile, feeling unaccountably flattered by the compliment.

Less than twenty minutes later they'd packed up their belongings into Hermione's bag, which was now tucked into an inner pocket of Harry's coat, erased the evidence of their campsite from the powdery snow that had fallen overnight, and removed the protective enchantments. Hand in hand, they Disapparated.

In a bustling London street, Harry remained hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak in a nearby alley as Hermione entered the clinic alone. He'd offered to accompany her inside, but she'd politely refused. The truth was that she was rather depressed by the idea that Ron wasn't there with her to hold her hand, to support her, and she simply couldn't stomach the idea of Harry going in his stead.

In the waiting room with its dog-eared magazines, cracked linoleum tiles, and uncomfortable plastic chairs, Hermione kept her head down, very aware of the other waiting patients, as she signed in under her fake name and filled in all of her fake information. She was meticulously careful to keep her wand concealed up her sleeve as she discreetly Confunded the receptionist so that she forgot to ask Hermione—or Maddie, actually—for her proof of identification.

Twenty minutes later she was changed into a paper gown in a room roughly the size of a walk-in closet, lying back on a plastic table, her feet suspended in stirrups as she endured her first-ever Muggle-style pelvic examination. Wizarding healthcare procedures were decidedly less…intrusive. By the time they got to the part where the doctor—a little middle-aged woman with a sleek brunette bob—slathered some clear, heated goo onto Hermione's still-flat belly, she was internally cursing Ron's name.

She silently stewed as she considered that  _men_  didn't have to go through invasive medical procedures like this.  _Men_  could just go around doing whatever with whomever without any thought as to the consequences of their actions because it wasn't  _their_  bodies that were affected. No, it was for the girl to worry about such mundane things like birth control. It was the  _girl_ who had to make the hard decisions, who would be poked and prodded, whose body would be changed, whose life would be forever altered—

"And…there you are, Miss Spencer," said Dr. Gladden, who was probing Hermione's belly with a cylindrical, metallic object, her eyes fastened on a video monitor at Hermione's bedside. "That's your baby. See right here? This is the heart, and that's the head, of course, and d'you see here? Your baby already has shoulders…"

Hermione's breathing sped up as she studied the blurry black and white little bean-like shape that was her baby. And…it was moving, she realized, flopping over in what appeared to be a large bubble that Hermione knew to be her uterus—and she could see a rapid fluttering movement in the center of the tiny mass. "It has a heartbeat," she whispered, the tears welling in her eyes.

In that moment, it truly became real to her: She, Hermione, was going to have a baby— _an actual baby_.

A baby whose father was missing in action. A baby whose life was dependent entirely on Hermione's ability to stay alive while on the run. A baby whose entire future was dependent on her and Harry's ability to take on the darkest wizard in the history of the world.

The tears spilled down her cheeks, unencumbered, as the kindly doctor smiled at her sympathetically, chattering as she pointed at the monitor, but Hermione hardly registered a word. This well-intended Muggle woman had no idea that nothing or no one was safe anymore. Sure, she might have seen on the evening news about an increase in disappearances, unexplained deaths, and structural collapses, but she had no idea that it was all caused by a world in which she didn't believe, or couldn't imagine.

She knew nothing of Lord Voldemort or of the violent, deadly war that currently waged in her back yard.

"Now, you'll want to find a primary care provider, of course," Dr. Gladden was saying as she wiped the goo from Hermione's belly. "And ordinarily I'd have my nurse perform some blood work, but given your present condition, I'd highly recommend that you check into the hospital straight away—they'll do the blood work there, of course."

"My—my present condition?" Hermione squeaked, her attention fully captured. Had she missed something? Was there something wrong with her baby?

"Don't worry," Dr. Gladden said reassuringly as she pressed a printout of the sonogram into Hermione's hands, "your baby appears to be healthy and developmentally normal, but I'm afraid  _you're_  another story altogether, my dear: You're malnourished and in dire need of gaining some weight. You said you've had severe morning sickness?—Because of that, I want to try feeding you intravenously. Don't worry—it'll only be for a night or two. I'll have my receptionist put in a call, let them know you're on your way. Which hospital would you prefer?"

"Oh," said Hermione as she stood up from the plastic table, clutching the gown to her body, "er, that won't be necessary, really. I, er, need to go home and pack an overnight bag. I'll call them from there."

Dr. Gladden smiled. "Very well," she said, turning and walking toward the counter and looking down at a clipboard. "Based on the date of your last menstrual cycle, I'm estimating your due date to be approximately July seventh, and according to your baby's development, that appears to be accurate."

"July seventh," Hermione repeated, testing the words on her tongue. It seemed so soon…just months. In an ideal world, a world without Voldemort, she would've completed her seventh and final year at Hogwarts by then.

Dr. Gladden smiled again. "Well, I suppose we're done here. I'll leave you to dress, then. Take care of yourself, Miss Spencer, for your baby's sake, and congratulations."

"Er, thanks," Hermione said as the doctor slipped out the door, shutting it quietly behind her. Hermione dressed as quickly as possible. Peering out into the white-painted corridor, she measured the possibility that Dr. Gladden might be in with another patient, but luck was evidently on her side: As she rounded a corner, she caught sight of the doctor talking with a blue-scrubbed nurse, and Hermione felt guilty as she Obliviated them both, but it was a necessary precaution.

On her way out she Obliviated the receptionist as well, tucking her head down as she marched back through the waiting room, out the glass double-doors, and onto the icy pavement. She didn't stop until she'd entered the alley where Harry waited beneath the Cloak, and, as he pulled it off himself, she captured his arms, Disapparating them as far away as she could.

They were in yet another ice-covered forest, the same as any other, as Hermione walked in her usual wide circle around Harry, casting the protective charms.

"Hermione," Harry said where he stood stock still, watching her perform the charms with unusual zeal. "Hermione, look at me. What happened?"

Only when the charms were adequately in place did Hermione allow herself to plop down on a fallen tree trunk, burying her face in her hands—much as she'd done yesterday when he'd asked her if she was pregnant. "Hermione," Harry said again, gently, as he sat down next to her. "Is something…wrong…with…?"

She shook her head, fighting back the tears. "No," she finally croaked. "No, she's…perfect…and healthy." At that, Hermione took the glossy printout from her coat pocket and handed it to Harry, who studied it for several long, silent moments. There wasn't a chance she was going to tell Harry that the doctor had wanted to have her hospitalized in order to have nourishment fed to her through tubes.

"July seventh," she added. "That's my due date."

"You're right, she's perfect," Harry finally said. "He'd be happy, you know," he added cautiously. "Ron…he'd be happy."

She burst into tears at those words, uncontrollable sobs tearing through her body without warning. Harry pulled her into his arms then, silently holding her as she sobbed violently against his chest, releasing her anguish as her tears wet his coat, but he didn't complain. He merely held her, rubbing gentle circles on her back as she cried for the man who'd impregnated her and subsequently abandoned her in the woods—the man that, despite everything, she still loved and craved and needed with everything that she was.

 _Ron,_ she cried inwardly, her grief bleeding into rage.  _"H-h-how could he do this to me?"_ she gasped out through her sobs.  _"How could he just leave me like that?"_ But Harry had no answer to give her. Instead, he tightened his hold on her and pressed his lips to the top of her head.

After a good fifteen minutes had passed, and her tears had finally begun to abate, Hermione carefully disentangled herself from Harry's arms, trembling, feeling embarrassed as she muttered apologies and stood on wobbly legs. "L-let's set up camp," she said, wiping her red, tear-stained face on the sleeve of her coat. "And-and then we should practice Apparating under the Cloak. I want to leave for Godric's Hollow as soon as we're prepared."

oOo

Hermione started crying in the present, thinking that she hadn't thought a week ago things could possibly get any worse, but she'd been wrong—so very wrong. Things were far worse, and she didn't know if they'd ever be okay again.

With trembling fingers, she picked up the bulky, glossy book she'd lifted from Bathilda's house,  _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore,_  flipping through it at random, wanting desperately to distract herself from her thoughts. She stopped only when she came to a picture of a young Albus Dumbledore…laughing alongside the same golden-haired young man that Harry had insisted back at Bathilda's was the thief who'd stolen from Gregorovitch. Hermione quickly scanned the caption:  _Gellert Grindelwald?_

Still trembling, trying to staunch her tears, Hermione tucked the book under one arm, picking up two cups of tea and carrying them carefully out the tent, where Harry sat just outside the mouth. The expression on his face as he stared absently into the distance was comparable to the way he'd looked at Ron that day.

"Harry?" she said timidly, crouching down next to him.

"Thanks," he said mechanically, accepting her proffered cup.

"Do you mind if I talk to you?"

"No." It was clear in the way he avoided looking directly at her that he wasn't interested in her company, but he didn't want to hurt her feelings.

"Harry, you wanted to know who that man in the picture was. Well…I've got the book."


	9. A Return

_This segment begins on p.379 of DH, Chapter Nineteen: The Silver Doe, first edition, printed in the U.S.A. This scene has been altered slightly from the original novel version to fit the context of this story._

oOo

" _Hermione!"_

Harry's voice jerked her wide awake, and she sat up hastily, wiping her hair out of her eyes. Hermione blindly groped for her wand before remembering that she didn't have it. "What's wrong?" she asked, her mind flashing automatically to Death Eaters, Nagini, and Voldemort himself as her bleary eyes struggled to focus. "Harry? Are you all right?"

"It's okay, everything's fine. More than fine. I'm great. There's someone here."

"What do you mean? Who—?"

And then she saw him: Ron. A half-scared, half-hopeful expression on his face. Soaking wet and dripping onto the carpet. Holding what appeared to a sword. However, Hermione only hazily noted the details of his appearance as she dragged herself from her bunk, walked toward him, and blinked rapidly, as if expecting him to disappear at any moment.

Upon realizing that he was really real, really standing in front of her, her heart swelled with several different emotions. They flickered by in rapid succession, as though her heart was a television and someone was changing the dial: shock, relief, undeniable love, and, finally, rage.

As Ron half raised his arms—Was he seriously expecting her to rush into them?—she launched herself at him, all rational thought lost, desiring only to cause as much physical harm to him as she possibly could—to make him feel some small measure of the pain and misery he'd put  _her_  through.

"Ouch—ow—gerrof!" Ron protested, stumbling backwards as Hermione began punching him aimlessly, everywhere she could reach. "What the—? Hermione—OW!"

"You—complete— _arse—_ Ronald—Weasley!" she wailed, punctuating each word with a blow, going for his face as he attempted to shield himself. It was either this or start crying again, and Hermione was so very tired of shedding tears for Ron Weasley. ""You—crawl—back—here—after—weeks—and—weeks—oh,  _where's my wand_?"

She rounded on Harry then, ready to wrestle it out of his hands when—

" _Protego!"_

The force of the spell, erupting between Ron and Hermione, knocked her backward, and she landed hard on her arse. Feeling more enraged than ever, she was back on her feet again in an instant, spitting her hair out of her face.

"Hermione!" said Harry. "Calm—"

"I will not calm down!" she screamed at him, her rage blinding her to anything but the vengeance that she desired. "Give me back my wand!  _Give it back to me!_ "

"Hermione, will you please—"

"Don't you tell me what to do, Harry Potter! Don't you dare! Give it back now! And YOU!" She rounded on Ron once more, and the absolute wrath in her eyes forced him back several steps. "I came running after you! I called you! I begged you to come back!"

"I know," said Ron guiltily. "Hermione, I'm sorry, I'm really—"

"Oh, you're  _sorry_!" She laughed maniacally. "For what, exactly? For using me? For accusing me of sleeping with Harry? For abandoning us? What _exactly_  are you sorry for, Ron?"

He had the sense to look properly repentant. "For all of it. I know I was a total arse, wait, no, that doesn't even cover it—"

"Oh, well, in  _that_  case, I suppose all is forgiven! Did you hear that, Harry?—He's  _sorry._  Well, saying sorry  _certainly_ makes up for everything, doesn't it, Harry? Ron Weasley can just do whatever he bloody well feels like, treat people however he fancies, and that's quite all right, because as long as he says  _sorry_  afterward, everything is just right and dandy again!"

"Well, what else can I say?" Ron shouted back, and Hermione felt enraged that he had the  _nerve_ to fight back after everything he'd done.

"Oh, I don't know! Rack your brains, Ron, that should only take a couple of seconds—"

"Hermione," Harry interrupted, "he just saved my—"

"I don't care!" she screamed. "I don't care what he's done! Weeks and weeks, we could have been  _dead_ for all he knew—"

"I knew you weren't dead!" Ron cut in, drowning her voice and approaching as close as he could with the Shielding Charm between them. "Harry's all over the  _Prophet_ , all over the radio, they're looking for you everywhere, all these rumors and mental stories, I knew I'd hear straight off if you were dead, you don't know what it's been like—"

"What it's been like for  _you_?" she interjected incredulously, her voice shrill to her own ears.

"I wanted to come back the minute I'd Disapparated, but I walked straight into a gang of Snatchers, Hermione, and I couldn't go anywhere!"

"A gang of what?" Harry asked at the same instant that Hermione shrieked,

"Who cares! You know what, Ron?" she added, more hysterical than ever. "You're not the only one who's sorry:  _I'm_  sorry, too! I'm sorry that I ever met you! I'm sorry I ever allowed myself to feel anything for you, and I'm certainly sorry that I ever allowed you touch me!"

Ron and Harry were both stunned into silence, their mouths falling slightly open in identical expressions of surprise that she would've found amusing had she not felt so enraged.

"But  _please_ ," she added with a terrible, sarcastic imitation of politeness, "I'm just  _dying_ to hear this. What convenient excuse prevented you from Apparating back to us immediately?"

Ron's ears were scarlet as he stared at her, still obviously shocked, but then he shook his head as if to clear it. "I guess I deserve that," he finally said. "I deserve a lot more than that, actually. But, yeah, er Snatchers," he said, addressing Harry. "They're everywhere—gangs trying to earn gold by rounding up Muggle-borns and blood traitors, there's a reward from the Ministry for everyone captured. I was on my own and I look like I might be school age…"

As Ron recounted his tale of escaping the gang of Snatchers, Hermione, still trembling in rage, threw herself into a nearby armchair, grudgingly listening:

"…Splinched myself again," Ron was saying when he reached the end of his story, holding up a hand that was missing two fingernails. Hermione merely raised a cold eyebrow at that. "And I came out miles from where you were. By the time I got back to that bit of riverbank where we'd been…you'd gone."

"Gosh, what a gripping story," Hermione said, her stores of sarcasm apparently having not yet been depleted. "You must have been simply terrified. Meanwhile we went to Godric's Hollow and, let's think, what happened there, Harry? Oh, yes, You-Know-Who's snake turned up, it nearly killed us both, and then You-Know-Who himself arrived and missed us by about a second."

"What?" said Ron, appearing shocked for the second time, as he gaped between Harry and Hermione.

"Imagine losing fingernails, Harry! That really puts our sufferings into perspective, doesn't it?"

"Hermione, Ron just saved my life," Harry said quietly.

"And do you want to know what the punch line is, Ron?" she added, ignoring Harry. "The kicker that just  _really_  puts the icing on top of the cake?" She paused for dramatic effect. "I'm p—"

The intense bout of nausea came on abruptly and unexpectedly. She'd been about to say  _I'm pregnant_ , but in the next moment was bent at the waist, becoming violently sick on her own shoes. She hadn't even had a chance to bolt out the tent.

She was dimly aware of Harry removing the Shield Charm, and the two men rushed to her side at once.

" _What the…? Hermione!"_  Ron gasped, reaching for her, but she shoved him away with one hand as she continued to be sick. Harry didn't dare touch her, and moments later he pressed into her hands a cool cup of water. Hermione sat back in her chair, kicking off her soiled shoes as she took a small sip without looking at him or thanking him. She was still angry that he hadn't relinquished her own wand back to her when she'd demanded it.

"Hermione, are you sick?" Ron asked, clear alarm in his voice as he crouched as near to her as she'd let him, cleaning up the mess she'd left with a wave of his own wand. "Harry, what's the matter with her?" he demanded of his best friend when Hermione merely shook her head, closing her eyes.

"Oh—er—"

"Stomach bug," Hermione interrupted Harry with an air of finality, pulling herself to her feet shakily and hugging her arms about herself. "It's just a stomach bug, is all. I'll be fine."

Harry stared at her, and she could see the unspoken statement in his expression:  _Aren't you going to tell him?_

She considered his undeclared question: She  _was_  going to, but now, well…now Hermione wasn't so sure she wanted to. The circumstance of Ron having walked out on her aside, after the way he'd treated her and the things he'd accused her of, Hermione found herself thinking that she owed Ron Weasley absolutely nothing.

It was her body, therefore her decision whom to tell. And perhaps it was childish, perhaps it was selfishness borne out of the bitterness that had embedded itself in her heart, but there it was: She wouldn't tell him until it was absolutely necessary.

"There's one thing I'd like to know," Hermione said after a moment, changing the subject, as Ron continued to stare at her, an annoyingly concerned expression on his face. "How exactly did you find us tonight? That's important. Once we know, we'll be able to make sure we're not visited by anyone else we don't want to see."

The troubled expression vanished from his face—which Hermione told herself she was glad for, since she didn't want or need his pity—and he glared at her as he pulled a small silver object out of his pocket: "This."

"The Deluminator?" Curiosity momentarily propelled her to forget her fury.

"It doesn't just turn the lights on and off," said Ron, who was now using his wand to dry his soaked clothing, which he'd apparently forgotten about until this moment. "I don't know how it works or why it happened then and not any other time, because I've been wanting to come back ever since I left. But I was listening to the radio really early on Christmas morning and I heard…I heard you."

He was looking at Hermione.

"You heard me on the radio?" she said, attempting to keep the scorn in her voice.

"No, I heard you coming out of my pocket. Your voice," he held up the Deluminator again, "came out of this."

"And what exactly did I say?" Her rage was completely forgotten for the time being, having been replaced by curiosity and a fair amount of skepticism.

"My name. 'Ron.' And you said…something about a wand…"

Hermione felt her face go warm as she realized that he was referring to the second time she'd spoken his name aloud since Ron's departure. She didn't know why it had happened then and not the first time: Perhaps Ron hadn't had his Deluminator on him then. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that she'd said his name with contempt that first time.

"So I took it out," Ron continued, his voice transfixed on the magical object in his hand, "and it didn't seem any different or anything, but I was sure I'd heard you. So I clicked it. And the light went out in my room, but another light appeared right outside the window…"

As Ron relayed the tale of the light that had gone into his body and led him to that windswept, snow-covered hillside that Harry and Hermione had stayed at for two nights—where they'd both been sure they could hear someone blundering about in the night—Hermione listened, transfixed. She spoke up only to explain that they'd Disapparated under cover of the Invisibility Cloak as an added precaution, which was why Ron had missed them.

"But when it started to get dark I knew I must have missed you," Ron was saying, "so I clicked the Deluminator again, the blue light came out and went inside me, and I Disapparated and arrived here in these woods. I still couldn't see you, so I just had to hope one of you would show yourselves in the end—and Harry did. Well, I saw the doe first, obviously."

"You saw the what?" Hermione exclaimed.

Harry and Ron explained the story of the silver doe, the sword in the bottom of the pool, Harry's near strangulation and subsequent rescue by Ron, and, finally, the destruction of the Horcrux by Ron using Gryffindor's sword. Hermione listened intently, interjecting where necessary, and when the tale was through, she rose on rubbery legs to pick up the vanquished Horcrux, which was now nothing more than a broken locket, placing it into her bag as Harry and Ron spoke quietly of Harry's broken wand.

As Hermione crawled wordlessly into her own bunk—her bitterness renewed now that the explanations were out of the way—she felt Ron's eyes on her as she pulled the blankets over her head, blinking back abrupt tears. Her emotions were warring: Despite her resentment, a large part of her longed to throw herself into Ron's arms, to forgive him and tell him about the baby, for things to go back to the way they'd been before everything had started to turn sour.

She briefly fantasized about Ron's excitement and happiness at learning he was going to be a father. She thought of arguing good-naturedly about baby names with him. She thought of him nuzzling her stomach and telling him that everything was going to be all right…

But there were no guarantees, were there? No one knew whether things were going to be all right. Although they'd managed to destroy one Horcrux, they still had no leads on the others, and Hermione felt like her time was coming to an end with every beat of her heart. In a few months, assuming she survived that long, she'd be forced to bench herself, and Harry and Ron would have to face this journey without her—for a while, at least.

"About the best you could hope for, I think," she heard Harry murmur to Ron.

"Yeah," Ron replied in a whisper. "Could've been worse. Remember those birds she set on me?"

"I still haven't ruled it out," Hermione said from beneath her blankets, thinking that she would forgive Ron eventually, but she wouldn't make it easy on him.


	10. A Decision

_This segment falls within the beginning DH, Chapter Twenty: Xenophilius Lovegood._

oOo

Hermione's resolve to stay angry with Ron did not subside overnight, and therefore it was rather easy for her to communicate mainly with stony silences and dirty looks the next day.

To Ron's credit, he didn't try saying sorry again—she had a feeling he was very aware that that would've merely resulted in another outburst from her—instead choosing to maintain a silent air of continued remorse in her presence, his way of proving to her just how regretful he was of his actions.

When he  _wasn't_  in Hermione's presence, though, it was another story entirely: When he thought she wasn't listening, Ron chattered away to Harry rather cheerfully, the two of them discussing everything from the full story of Godric's Hollow to the possible whereabouts of the other Horcruxes to who had produced the doe Patronus.

Harry shared in Ron's merriment, but he didn't bother trying to hide it in Hermione's presence as Ron did. In actuality, a part of Hermione was just as happy that Ron had come back as Harry was, that he was safe and ready to redouble his efforts, and that he sought Hermione's forgiveness. In fact, this was what she'd wanted for months; she'd hoped and silently prayed for Ron's return.

However, there was no way she was letting Ron on to that fact: She was determined to punish him.

Sitting at the mouth of the tent at midday, while pretending to read, she watched Ron and Harry. They were talking while pretending to look for edible mosses—a rather unnecessary task given that they still had enough food to last a couple more days—but she was well aware that they were eager to escape her baleful glares.

Hermione felt a twinge of unease in her gut as she watched them. She didn't think Harry would tell Ron about her pregnancy, but she also knew that it made him uncomfortable that she was keeping it from Ron.

"Hermione, you have to tell him," Harry had said to her urgently that morning when Ron had wandered off on his own for a few minutes. "It feels like lying, keeping him in the dark."

"It's no one's business but my own," Hermione had mumbled back obstinately, her eyes not glancing up once from her book. "I'll tell him when I'm good and ready."

It was obvious that he'd wanted to argue, but Ron had wandered back over at that very moment. She could feel his eyes on her, but she'd ignored him studiously.

In the present, she set her book aside, quietly rising to her feet and following the two men into the thicket of frost-covered trees, where they were still talking together: "…don't know that it's such a big deal, though," Ron was saying. "He was really young when they—"

"Our age," Harry replied, cutting him off, and she knew immediately that they'd been discussing Dumbledore. It was the same reply Harry had given Hermione when she'd made a similar statement.  _"Engorgio,"_ Harry said, aiming the blackthorn wand, which Ron had taken from a Snatcher and given to Harry the night before, at a nearby spider in the brambles.

The spider merely shivered slightly the first time he cast the spell, but it grew slightly larger on Harry's second frustrated attempt.

"Stop that," Ron said suddenly. "I'm sorry I said Dumbledore was young, okay?"

"Sorry— _Reducio_ ," Harry responded, unsuccessfully attempting to reduce the spider to its previous size.

"You just need to practice," Hermione spoke up from where she'd been anxiously watching him; she still felt a bit guilty about Harry's wand, but at the moment it was a rather minor concern.

Later that evening, once they'd all returned to the tent, Harry volunteered to take to take first watch, sitting down in the mouth of the tent with the blackthorn wand, where he attempted to levitate small stones.

Hermione could feel Ron's eyes on her again, but she ignored him, climbing purposefully into her bunk to read  _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ by the light of her wand.

After many obviously nervous glances in her direction, Ron took a small wooden radio out of his bag and attempted to tune it. She heard him speaking lowly to Harry again, but she ignored them as she immersed herself in her reading, reviewing the copy of the original letter from Dumbledore to Grindelwald:  _"…We seize control for The Greater Good. And from this it follows that where we meet resistance, we must use only the force that is necessary and no more. (This was your mistake at Durmstrang! But I do not complain, because if you had not been expelled, we would never have met.) –Albus."_

Hermione studied the signature closely, her attention caught by something she hadn't noticed before: In place of the  _A_ of Albus was a small triangular mark that Hermione was becoming quite familiar with. It was the same mark inscribed in  _The Tales of Beedle the Bard,_ the same mark she was almost certain had been on that tombstone back at Godric's Hollow, the same mark that Xenophilius Lovegood had worn around his neck at Bill and Fleur's wedding, which Harry had said Viktor had insisted was Grindelwald's mark.

_Grindelwald…Xenophilius Lovegood._

Struck by sudden inspiration, Hermione climbed down from her bunk, the book tucked under her arm.

"If it's annoying you, I'll stop!" said Ron nervously, who'd been tapping the top of his radio with his wand.

Hermione pretended she didn't hear him as she approached Harry, who was still practicing with the blackthorn. "We need to talk," she said as Ron muttered behind her something about needing the loo.

"Yes, we do," Harry replied as Ron vanished inside the bathroom. "When are you going to tell him?" he whispered.

"I told you—it's none of his business," she hissed, feeling annoyed.

"None of his—? Hermione, it's his kid, too!" he hissed back, his tone dubious.

"It's my body, my choice whom to tell," she whispered, her hands planted stubbornly on her hips. "Besides, I don't owe him anything after what he—"

"He's obviously sorry, Hermione—"

"Look," she said with exaggerated patience and with an iciness she didn't actually feel, "the fact that he impregnated me hardly makes him a father, but, rather, a sperm donor."

"I know you don't really mean that," Harry replied coolly. "You don't have to forgive him, but you  _do_  have to tell him. He has a right to know, Hermione, and the longer you wait, the harder it'll be—"

"I told you I'd tell him when I'm good and ready—!"

"Tell me what?"

Hermione wheeled around, her face heating as Harry's head snapped up guiltily. They'd been so wrapped up in their debate that neither had noticed Ron emerge from the bathroom.

"You are talking about me, right?"

"I was just saying to Harry that I'll tell you when I'm good and ready that I want to go and see Xenophilius Lovegood," Hermione said smoothly while Harry blathered.

Both men stared at her as if a second head had sprouted from the side of her neck.

"Sorry?" they said in unison.

"Xenophilius Lovegood," Hermione replied, feeling thankful for her own save, as she turned back to Harry. "Luna's father. I want to go and talk to him!"

oOo

_This segment falls within DH, Chapter Twenty-Two: The Deathly Hallows._

oOo

As far as Hermione was concerned, the excursion to the Lovegood home had proven almost as disastrous as Godric's Hollow, and she regretted deeply her former curiosity about the symbol that Mr. Lovegood had insisted was the sign of the Deathly Hallows.

Not only had Harry, Ron, and Hermione narrowly escaped a run-in with Death Eaters, but Harry had subsequently become obsessed with the supposed "Deathly Hallows," which he insisted were very real and that he was, in fact, in possession of two of them. It was all utter nonsense, of course. The idea that Harry's very own Invisibility Cloak had been fashioned by Death himself, and that Dumbledore had left him a ring capable of raising the dead—Hermione shuddered to herself at the thought—hidden inside a Snitch was beyond ridiculous.

However, Harry couldn't be persuaded to see reason, and so great had his brooding obsession become that he no longer seemed interested in locating the other Horcruxes at all.

Ron had taken her side on this matter, agreeing that the Hallows were rubbish and that they should be concentrating on finding Horcruxes, since that's what Dumbledore had specifically instructed them to do. Although, Hermione wasn't sure whether he truly agreed with her or if he was merely trying to get back in her good graces.

Whatever his reasons, as they pitched their tent across gray muddy marshes day after day, Ron took the lead, discussing with Hermione the possible Horcrux locations with renewed zeal while Harry lounged about in his bunk, turning the Snitch over and over in his hand as if expecting the thing to burst open at any moment and the ring to come rolling out of it.

"Harry, I'm rather disappointed in you!" Hermione had finally snapped, two weeks after the visit to the Lovegoods,' when she and Ron had been discussing where to go next, and Harry wasn't even  _attempting_  to appear remotely interested. "Do I really need to remind you that this is  _your_ mission?"

"Obsessing over the Horcruxes obviously isn't helping us locate them," he'd snapped back. "We don't know anything more about them than we knew months ago."

"Obsession?" she'd growled lowly, fiercely. "We're not the ones with an obsession, Harry! We're the ones trying to do what Dumbledore wanted us to do!"

However, this argument didn't appear to faze Harry, and she silently considered that at least one good thing had come from Harry's newfound preoccupation: He no longer pestered her to tell Ron about her pregnancy. In fact, so all-encompassing was his fixation that he seemed to have forgotten about her condition entirely.

It was no longer Harry jumping up to hold back her hair and to press a glass of water into her hands during her still-frequent bouts of morning sickness, but Ron. While dabbing her face lovingly afterward, he sometimes questioned her about her mysterious "illness," but she adamantly insisted that everything was fine, coming up with different excuses: the changing weather, something she'd eaten which hadn't agreed with her, a pesky stomach bug.

She knew that Ron was aware she wasn't being truthful with him, but he seemed resigned to the fact that she would talk to him when she was ready.

Hermione's reasons for maintaining the secrecy were no longer that she was angry with him. No, she'd forgiven him much quicker than she'd originally intended, even if they hadn't resumed the romantic aspect of their relationship, despite the fact that Ron clearly desired to, and so did Hermione.

It was quite another reason entirely: As the weeks wore on, bleeding into months, and Hermione's sickness began to subside and she finally started putting on some weight, she feared Ron's reaction. It wasn't that she thought he would be upset—on the contrary, she knew that Harry had been right about Ron being happy—but she was afraid he would insist that she leave them, perhaps to go stay with Bill and Fleur.

And Hermione couldn't bear the idea of not knowing where Harry and Ron were or what they were doing, especially in light of the fact that Harry no longer seemed interested in his own mission. She was convinced that they needed her now more than ever, and if she told Ron about the pregnancy it would be like at Grimmauld Place all over again—only a hundred times worse.

It was now March, according to her little day planner, and Hermione stood in the loo, holding up her baggy sweatshirt as she studied the now noticeable bump protruding from her midsection. Her pregnancy was more than halfway through, and she'd begun to fill in: In addition to the swelling of her abdomen, her breasts seemed larger, her arms and legs slightly rounder, her face fuller.

This was in part due to the fact that she was now able to keep down meals—and she ate ravenously to make up for nutrition lost during her first trimester—but also in part due to the fact that they were eating better than they had prior to Ron's departure.

Hermione continued to Apparate to random Muggle villages every week in order to obtain food supplies, and Ron didn't question this new, albeit riskier food-gathering method. He happily devoured the sandwiches, canned fruits, and glasses of milk that she set out on the table, complimenting her "cooking," his cheeks bulging with the goodies.

He'd also noticed the fact that she seemed to have "recovered" from her mysterious illness. "Hermione, you look really good," he'd complimented her that very morning as she'd sat across the table from him, heartily consuming bacon, toast, eggs, and fruit. "I was worried for a while about all that weight you'd lost, but you're filling back in," he'd added approvingly.

Of course, Ron hadn't noticed just how "filled in" she'd really become, as she'd taken to borrowing his sweatshirts, which were rather baggy on her—perfect for concealing her ever-growing baby bump. Hermione hadn't missed Harry's raised eyebrow from where he'd sat hunched in the mouth of the tent, her copy of  _Beedle the Bard_  open in his lap despite the fact that he couldn't read Runes.

Apparently he hadn't forgotten about her condition after all.

Later that evening, as Harry lay across his bunk, the Snitch in his hand once more as he undoubtedly obsessed over the Hallows, Hermione joined Ron outside the tent, where he was standing first watch. He was sitting on a large rock, his back against the canvas wall, his wand lit against the velvety blackness of the night as he stared at the Deluminator in his hand. He was studying it with much the same intensity that Harry was currently studying the old Snitch.

"Thanks, Hermione," he said gratefully as he accepted a cup of tea from her, and she sat down next to him, as near as she could get without touching him.

"What are you thinking about?" she said, indicating the metallic object in his hand, but she had an idea already.

"The night I came back," he murmured, confirming her suspicions as he took a sip of tea. "I keep thinking about the reasons Dumbledore left this for me… He knew it'd come in handy, didn't he?"

She merely smiled gently in response.

"Well, why do you reckon he left you that book? And Harry the Snitch? There has to be a reason."

"Ron…" she said, feeling slightly exasperated.  _Not him, too._ "If this is about the Hallows…"

"I'm not saying I think Harry's right to be focusing on that, when Dumbledore told him to look for Horcruxes," Ron explained quickly, "but maybe there's something to it. Why  _would_ he leave Harry an old Snitch, Hermione?"

"I don't know, but the idea that it conceals a stone that can  _raise the dead_ , that's insane, Ron."

He frowned slightly, looking down at his Deluminator once more. "Who do you reckon cast that doe?" he asked, apparently choosing not to press the point.

"Well…someone that Dumbledore trusted, I imagine. Someone he knew would find a way to get the sword to us." It was a conversation they had had many times over the past several months, but they were no closer to having an answer to that than they were to finding the locations of the final three Horcruxes.

"McGonagall?" Ron asked hopefully. "If anyone could find us, it'd be her."

"Maybe," said Hermione doubtfully. The idea that  _anyone_  had been able to find them worried her. After all, if someone had been able to find them in order to give them Gryffindor's sword, why couldn't Voldemort find them as easily? "If it had been McGonagall, though, why the mystery? Why put it in the bottom of a frozen pool rather than just handing it over? And why couldn't she have done so during the summer?"

Ron didn't have an answer to that, so instead they lapsed into silence, both lost in their own thoughts. After a moment she felt his fingers brush her hand almost hesitantly, as if he was scared she'd pull away, but instead, she wrapped her own fingers around his on top of her thigh, squeezing gently.

It was the first time he'd attempted to hold her hand since he'd come back, and Hermione's heart constricted with longing, and at the same moment she felt a flutter of movement from her belly, as if her baby sensed that its father was near.

At that moment, a terrible, insurmountable guilt overcame Hermione, guilt that she was keeping a secret of such immense magnitude from the man that she loved. "Ron," she whispered, turning to face him by the light of their wands, only to find his face very close to hers, his lips mere inches away.

 _Tell him_ , she urged herself.  _Just tell him._

But she realized she was scared he'd be angry that she'd kept it from him for so long, and she didn't want to ruin this moment, which was so very perfect as Ron sat his Deluminator on the ground before bringing his hand back up to slip around the back of her neck, and the space between their lips closed. His lips met hers, and it was like their first kiss all over again, only somehow a hundred times more potent.

Hermione moaned against his mouth as his lips parted, and he deepened the kiss while her hands came up to pull him closer, weaving in his hair. _Heaven._ This surely was what heaven was like, because she couldn't imagine a sweeter, more precious high than this. This was everything.

"I love you, Hermione," he whispered when they finally broke apart, gasping, his forehead pressed against hers. "I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm so sorry for hurting you. I—I'd blame it on the Horcrux, but it was really just me being an insecure git. I mean, yeah, the Horcrux made it worse, but I couldn't understand why you'd want me when…well, anyway…" His voice trailed off. "I'll do anything— _anything_ —to make it up to you, to make things right again, Hermione."

"Ron," she whispered, her heart breaking at the vulnerability in his voice as she caressed his face, tears spilling down her cheeks. It would've been an absolute perfect moment had it not been tainted by her guilt. She hated that he was apologizing to her, when she was carrying such a huge secret—both figuratively and literally. "Ron, there's something I have to tell you. I'm—"

Her mind flashed back to Grimmauld Place all those months ago, when she and Ron had argued bitterly over whether she should be allowed to accompany Harry and Ron to the Ministry. She didn't have the strength to get into a row of that enormity with Ron tonight, she realized.

"Hermione, what is it?"

"I'm…thank you—for saying that," she said lamely. "It means a great deal to me." And then she kissed him one more time, squeezing his hand gently before bidding him goodnight, retreating back inside, and crawling into her bunk.

As she took out her sonogram picture, like she did every night, and studied it by the light of her wand beneath her blankets, she promised herself that she would tell him tomorrow. She would have to prep herself mentally; she would steel herself to have a prepared response for every argument Ron could throw at her about why she should leave.

Her baby gave a little flip as if in response to her decision. "Like that idea, do you?" she murmured, rubbing her belly lightly before extinguishing her wand.


	11. A Nightmare

_This segment falls within DH, Chapter Twenty-Three: Malfoy Manor._

oOo

She was sure she had fallen into one of her nightmares: a very vivid, terrible, unthinkable nightmare where all of her worst fears had sprung into being.

The pain tore through her body again and again, unstoppable, immovable, originating from the very molecules that comprised her being. As it ravished its way outward through her very blood vessels and limbs, all Hermione could think was,  _I never told him. I never told him._

She'd planned on telling him that very day—the day after she'd kissed him—but after breakfast Ron had finally managed to tune into  _Potterwatch_ , and she'd been so completely consumed with jubilation over hearing the friendly voices of Remus, Kingsley, Lee Jordan, and Fred that it had been whisked from her mind.

And in the blink of an eye, before she could barely process all they'd learned, Snatchers had swooped down upon them, and their former safe haven—with all its protective enchantments, which had been Hermione's home for months—had been rendered useless.

Hermione had had her wits about her, however, and had managed to perform the Stinging Jinx on Harry to disguise his face just before they'd all been dragged roughly out of the tent. Her efforts had been futile, of course, as it hadn't taken them long to figure out who Harry was once they'd recognized Hermione's face from a picture on the  _Prophet._

"What else did you take?" Bellatrix Lestrange now screamed at Hermione, where she currently writhed in agony on the cold marble floor of the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. "What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!"

" _Nothing, we didn't—"_  Her reply was cut off, and Hermione screamed again as the curse ripped through her body once more, the agony blinding, debilitating. She rolled onto her stomach, her fingernails clawing at the tile in a fruitless endeavor to get away from the horrible woman who loomed over her.

Through the haze of the unbearable torment—she was fighting to stay conscious—Hermione noted that the woman who was torturing her looked positively mad, her dark hair wild about her face, her hands curled into claws, her wand clutched in one hand, the glint of a blade in the other.

She was aware of the others as well: Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, who didn't exactly seem to be enjoying Hermione's torture but who weren't interfering, either; Draco, who, Hermione realized with some astonishment, looked a bit green, and he avoided looking directly at her.

Fenrir Greyback, pacing back and forth just behind Lestrange, was leering at Hermione, a nasty smirk on his face as the torturous screams continued to erupt from her lips.

"Try not to do any permanent damage, will ya?" Greyback snarled from behind Lestrange. "I have plans for Miss Girly-girl. Me and her, we're gonna have some fun."

"What else did you take, what else?" Bellatrix demanded of Hermione, ignoring the werewolf. "ANSWER ME!  _CRUCIO!_ "

It was too much for her to bear. The pain was beyond agonizing, and Hermione—now curled on her side, her arms crossing over her belly in a useless attempt to protect the wildly thrashing child that she carried—vomited.

Lestrange let out a jeer of revulsion. "You disgusting Mudblood," she hissed, and Hermione found herself thinking wildly that it was better this way. If she was going to die now, it was better for Ron to have never known she was pregnant.

"HERMIONE! HERMIONE!" His panicked bellows reached her ears from below in the cellar, as if in response to her thought, and her heart cried out for him.  _Ron._

There was a sharp pain to the small of her back, and Hermione cried out at the unexpected twinge as she realized that Lestrange had kicked her. "Please," she whimpered pathetically, "please. W-we didn't take—!"

"Disgusting little liar," Bellatrix hissed, crouching down next to Hermione as she attempted to roll away from her. She was yanked up roughly by her hair, forced into a half-standing position, and Hermione felt the cold sting of the blade against her throat and the horrible woman's foul breath in her nostrils. Her tears poured down her face as she trembled. "You'd better tell me now," Bellatrix growled in her ear.

"Bella," Mrs. Malfoy spoke up.

"What?" she snapped, her eyes flashing to her sister's, and Hermione and Bellatrix realized at the same instant that Narcissa's eyes were locked on Hermione's stomach: Her shirt had ridden up, revealing what was very obviously a baby bump.

"Mother…" Draco spoke up for the first time, sounding horrified as Bellatrix cackled, "make her stop…please…"

"Quiet, Draco!" Bellatrix spat as she flung Hermione to the ground. Her forehead smacked the marble with a sickening  _thud_. "Don't tell me you feel pity for this Mudblood slag?" Her voice was full of disdain. She crouched down next to Hermione once more, yanking back her hair again, hard enough that Hermione saw stars and a strangled sob ripped from her throat. She'd never been so terrified in her life.

"Which one of them are you spreading those legs for?" Bellatrix hissed menacingly in Hermione's face. "Is it Potter that you're whoring yourself for? The other one? Or perhaps both of them?"

Hermione cringed away from her, clamping her eyes shut tight, wishing this all would just disappear. She would wake up in her bedroom back in her own home, and her dad would greet her with a joke over the morning paper, and her mum would pour her a cup of tea…

"HERMIONE! HERMIONE! HERMIONE!"

Ron's bellows reached her ears once more, and her eyes flew open instinctively.

Lestrange cackled again, a horrible, mad sound. "The blood traitor—why am I not surprised?"

"She likes the bump and grind, does she?" Greyback said menacingly, terribly as he bared his yellowed, pointed teeth. "I'll show you what it's like to get down and dirty wolf-style, little girl. I'd say it's something you won't never forget—but then, you won't live much longer afterward anyway, now will you?"

Hermione had the urge to be sick again as a powerful wave of nausea overcame her.

"Patience, Greyback," Bellatrix whispered, leaning over Hermione and yanking her shirt up. She then dragged the blade of the knife down Hermione's throat, between her breasts, and it hovered over the swell of her stomach. The blade lingered there, and Hermione gasped in fear and fresh pain as she felt it pierce her skin ever so slightly. "It's still my turn to play with her. Now," she said, addressing Hermione, "if you don't tell me what I need to know, first I'll cut out the abomination growing inside your filthy womb—"

"Bella—!" Narcissa hissed, clearly appalled.

"And then I'll drag your blood traitor boyfriend up here," she continued, ignoring her sister as she pressed down slightly harder, "and I will slowly, excruciatingly castrate him as to ensure that he can never again pollute the Wizarding world by spreading his seed to Mudbloods and Muggles." Her tone was one of utter disgust. "And then I may just kill him for the fun of it.

"Now," she added with an air of finality, flinging Hermione aside roughly yet again before springing to her feet, pacing in front of Hermione's cowering, trembling form. "I am done playing games with you, little Mudblood. I am going to ask you one more time." She paused before bellowing: "How did you get into my vault? Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?"

"We only met him tonight!" Hermione sobbed, finding her voice, from where she quaked on the floor, attempting to staunch the bleeding from the fresh wound to her abdomen. "We've never been inside your vault…" Panic caused her to grasp at straws, and she said the first thing that came to her mind: "It isn't the real sword! It's a copy, just a copy!"

"A copy?" screeched Lestrange. "Oh, a likely story!"

"But we can find out easily!" Lucius Malfoy spoke up from next to his wife. "Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not!"

Draco, still a bit green, obeyed his father wordlessly as he practically dashed from the room.

Hermione heard Bellatrix whispering excitedly with Mr. Malfoy in the next several minutes that followed, but she couldn't focus on what they were saying as she slouched against the floor, fading in and out of consciousness, silently praying for the tiny life inside her, who'd gone still in her belly. She prayed for Harry and Ron's lives, and Dean, and that poor goblin who was being dragged back up here…

The next thing she became aware of was an excruciating agony ripping through her body once more, and Hermione screamed shrilly, jerking into full consciousness.

Bellatrix was hovering over her again, wand in hand. "Have a nice nap, did you?" She tortured Hermione for the next several minutes, evidently for nothing more than pure entertainment, since she didn't ask Hermione any more questions.

She was vaguely aware that the goblin was now standing next to Draco, who had returned, but she couldn't concentrate on anything through the pain that ravaged her body from the inside out, and she flailed on the floor helplessly, on the verge of unconsciousness once more…

Abruptly, a loud  _crack_ sounded from the cellar, and the pain mercifully ceased as Bellatrix lost her focus.

"What was that?" shouted Mr. Malfoy. "Did you hear that? What was that noise in the cellar?"

"Draco—no, call Wormtail!" Bellatrix screamed. "Make him go and check!"

Hermione lost consciousness completely after that. Later, she would remember flashes of lights that were undoubtedly curses, people yelling incoherently, and a particularly jarring crash that she would come to find out later was a chandelier that had landed right on top of her.

But the most vivid thing she'd remember before waking up in Shell Cottage, her whole body feeling like it had been through a blender, would be Ron's tears on her face.


	12. An Escape

_This segment starts toward the end of DH, Chapter Twenty-Three: Malfoy Manor and continues on through the beginning of Chapter Twenty-Four: The Wandmaker._

oOo

His heart was in his throat as he and Harry abandoned the body of the cowardly Wormtail, which was now quite still outside the cellar door, and crept up the stairs and into the shadowy passageway that lead back to the drawing room.

It took every ounce of will power Ron Weasley possessed to keep from dashing into the room, where, up until moments ago, Hermione had been screaming as that evil hag Lestrange tortured her. Her dreadful screams still rang horribly in his ears, but her current silence was arguably worse. He tried not to fear the worst as he peered around Harry through the partly open door.

His eyes found her immediately: Hermione, resembling a broken ragdoll, was crumpled at Bellatrix's feet. She was stirring, but only just; impossibly, Ron's heart sped up in his chest.  _Hermione._

"Well?" Lestrange was demanding of the goblin, Griphook. "Is it the true sword?"

"No," he answered as he examined the hilt. "It is a fake."

"Are you sure?" Lestrange was nearly beside herself. "Quite sure?"

"Yes."

"Good," she replied, breathing a sigh of relief before casually flicking her wand. A deep slash cut across the goblin's face, and he crumpled with a bellow of surprise and pain. "And now," she said as she carelessly kicked him aside, pulling back the sleeve of her robes, "we call the Dark Lord!"

And then she touched her finger to the Dark Mark embossed on her forearm.

Next to Ron, Harry winced, his eyes shutting tightly as he clutched his forehead in his free hand, but Ron barely registered this. His full attention was fully captured by Lestrange's next words: "And I think we can dispose of the Mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Without thinking about what he was doing, Ron had burst into the drawing room, the wand he had taken from Wormtail aimed at her face; Bellatrix wheeled around in evident shock, her eyes locking on Ron as she raised her own wand—

" _Expelliarmus!"_ he roared.

Her wand was blasted out of her hand, and Harry—who'd entered the room right on Ron's heels—caught it smoothly. Lucius, Narcissa, Draco, and Greyback looked momentarily bewildered as they wheeled about, their eyes landing on Ron and Harry.  _"Stupefy!"_ yelled Harry, aiming Lestrange's wand at the elder Malfoy, who crumpled on the hearth.

Draco, Narcissa, and Greyback were fighting back, spells blasting from their own wands, but Ron wasn't paying any attention to them. There was only one thing that mattered to him, and that was the girl who was lying, now unmoving, on the cold floor. He dashed toward her, dodging jets of light—

"STOP OR SHE DIES!"

Lestrange, who'd been standing near Hermione, had beaten him to her prone form, and the evil hag was now supporting Hermione, who was unconscious, a glinting blade against her exposed throat.

"Drop your wands," Lestrange whispered. "Drop them or I shall spill her filthy blood all over the floor—and that would be a shame, seeing as it's made of fine marble."

Ron froze in indecision and fear, his heart thundering in his chest.

"I said drop them!" Then she smiled viciously at Ron, dragging the knife lower and yanking up Hermione's bloodied sweatshirt. "Do you suppose that the half-blood brat she carries survived what I just did to her?" she whispered, and Ron stood stock-still, staring in shock at Hermione's abnormally rounded belly. There was a smear of brightest red from a fresh gash across her taut skin, and Lestrange pressed her blade against the open wound. "If so, I can certainly remedy that."

"All right!" Harry shouted from somewhere behind him and to his left, but Ron was speechless, his eyes fastened on Hermione's exposed stomach. His throat had gone dry, his stomach rolling in horror and fear, and he allowed Wormtail's wand to drop from his sweaty grip.

"Good!" she said with a leer, laughing at the expression on Ron's face. "You didn't know?" She made a face of nasty mock-sympathy. "Pity. Draco—," she addressed her nephew, "—pick them up! The Dark Lord is coming, Harry Potter! Your death approaches!

"Now," she added as Draco scurried about, picking up the fallen wands, "Cissy, I think we ought to tie these little heroes up again, while Greyback takes care of Miss Mudblood. I am sure the Dark Lord will not begrudge you the girl, Greyback, after what you have done tonight."

As Lestrange spoke, there came a strange grinding noise from directly overhead, and Ron's head snapped up in time to see the great crystal chandelier trembling and jingling threateningly. With a great creak, it was ripped from the ceiling as if by a giant, invisible hand.

He didn't have time to react; by the time Lestrange had dodged out of the line of fire—and Ron realized that Hermione was directly underneath it—it had already crashed to the marble floor, exploding mightily, crystal shards flying everywhere.

Ron didn't even think about covering his face to protect himself; he was already diving toward that shattered mass, panic and opportunity forcing him into action as he pulled Hermione's bleeding, broken body from the wreckage. As he hefted her into his arms, pushing her hair out of her face while her head lolled on her neck, he felt a flood of relief as he confirmed that she was breathing, even if it was shallow. That relief was short-lived, however, in the next moment when he realized, sickeningly and with a rush of pure dread, that there was blood on her inner thighs, staining her jeans dark.

He glanced up in time to see Harry bounding over an armchair, wrestling the wands from Draco's grip at the same moment that Lestrange leaped to her feet, silver knife in hand. Narcissa had her wand aimed at the doorway to the cellar. "Dobby!" she shrieked, and Bellatrix froze. "You!  _You_  dropped the chandelier—?"

Dobby trotted into the room then, shaking his finger bravely at his former mistress—or  _slave owner_ , Ron thought, as Hermione would have called her. "You must not hurt Harry Potter!" the little elf squeaked.

"Kill him, Cissy!" screamed Bellatrix, but at the same instant there was a  _crack_ , and Narcissa's wand was blasted from her hand, landing amongst the debris of the fallen chandelier. "You dirty little monkey!" she screeched. "How dare you take a witch's wand, how dare you defy your masters?"

"Dobby has no master!" the elf squealed defiantly. "Dobby is a free elf, and Dobby has come to save Harry Potter and his friends!"

"Ron, catch—and GO!" Harry yelled, tossing him a wand, and Ron caught it smoothly in his free hand. Just before he Apparated to Shell Cottage, Hermione securely in his arms, he caught sight of Harry seizing Griphook beneath the shoulders, who was still clutching onto Gryffindor's sword as if his life depended on it—

They crashed into solid ground, and the salty sea air hit his nostrils immediately. Beneath the starry night sky, he saw Bill and Fleur's cottage a short distance away. "Bill!" he called toward the cottage as he began to sprint in its direction, and Hermione was dead weight against his chest, her arms flailing limply, her head lolling as he ran.  _Please, please, please_ , he prayed to whichever deity would listen.  _Let them be okay. Let them be okay. "Bill!_ HELP!"

They poured out of the small house then—the familiar figures of Dean, Luna, Fleur, and Bill in the lead, who met him halfway. "She's been tortured," Ron breathed in a rush, refusing to relinquish her when his brother held out his arms.

He carried her into the house, into Bill and Fleur's sitting room. He was aware of the others filing in behind him as he urgently but gently lied her down on the sofa.

"Fleur, go get—"

"Bill," Ron cut in, grabbing his brother's arm, not quite meeting his eye. "She—I think—I mean—she's pregnant." He stumbled slightly on the word. "And bleeding."

There was a brief instant of stunned silence, and he felt rather than saw four pairs of eyes flash to Hermione, who was quite still on the couch.

"Fleur—go!" Bill broke the silence.

"I am on eet," she replied, and, indeed, she was already rushing up the stairs, returning only moments later wearing medical robes with pockets stuffed with bottles of various potions. The others filed back out of the room when Fleur asked for privacy, but Ron didn't budge from where he crouched next to Hermione, her limp hand in his. He leaned over her, tears rising in his eyes, and they fell on her pale face.

"Ron," Fleur said meaningful.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Very well." She then aimed her wand at the door, and it slammed shut, the lock clicking into place. He watched as Fleur proceeded to expertly cut Hermione's clothes away with a flash of her wand, and he felt thankful for his sister-in-law's Healer training.

"Ron, I need room," she said, and he wordlessly relinquished Hermione's hand and began pacing behind Fleur as she worked. She was waving her wand over Hermione's rounded, bloodied stomach, muttering words he couldn't make out, and the drying blood vanished, the wound sealing itself. "Ze wound was not deep," she commented as fresh pink tissue formed.

Next, she tilted Hermione's head back, who let out a soft moan that might have been Ron's name, stirring slightly. "Dreenk zis, 'Ermione," Fleur instructed gently but firmly, and Hermione obeyed weakly as her eyelids fluttered open. "Very good. I am going to examine you now, ees zat okay? You were bleeding, but I want to make sure eet 'as stopped."

Hermione nodded, her eyes drifting closed again, and Ron turned his head respectfully when Fleur parted Hermione's thighs.  _Please let them be okay_ , he prayed again.

"Ron," Fleur said after a moment, "she and ze child—"

"HELP! HELP!"

Harry's voice cut in through Fleur's verdict, bellowing from outside the cottage, and Ron realized with some astonishment that he'd completely forgotten about his best friend.


	13. A Paradox

_This segment is set within the beginning of DH, Chapter Twenty-Four: The Wandmaker._

oOo

For the briefest moment in time, Ron experienced an instinctive urge to dash outside in response to his best friend's panicked cries, to check whether he was hurt. But it was the girl lying on the sofa, evidently unconscious again, that kept him rooted to the spot in Bill and Fleur's tastefully decorated living room where he now stood.

There was only one thing in this life that could possibly override his concern for his friend, and that was Hermione—and the child he'd only so recently learned, and in the most terrible way imaginable, that she carried. The child that he, Ron, had fathered: an idea that he hadn't yet had an opportunity to wrap his mind around. The child whose life might have ended before it had even begun, before Ron had even…

"Fleur," he said urgently as a myriad of frenzied, panicked thoughts tumbled through his mind in rapid succession. He had to know. Now.

"Zey are going to be fine," Fleur said quickly, as she, too, had been distracted by Harry's cries for help, but in the moments that followed there was a scramble of footsteps and the slamming of a door, and Ron knew that the others had responded to his calls. "Zere was a rupture between ze placenta and ze uterine wall. If she 'ad been furzer along in 'er pregnancy, I might 'ave induced labor, but eet is far too soon for zat. As it ees, I 'ave successfully repaired ze rupture, and ze bleeding 'as stopped. Ze child undoubtedly suffered a trauma, but she is…strong and resilient like 'er  _maman_. She will be fine."

The relief that Ron felt in that moment was like nothing he'd previously experienced. Not even during the summer, after the fall of the Ministry when his father's Patronus had brought word that the family was safe, had he felt this level of shattering relief; his knees buckled beneath the weight of it as Fleur wrapped Hermione in one of her own dressing gowns, and he found himself crouched on the floor in front of the sofa once more, tears wetting his face.

"When she wakes," Fleur said softly when she'd finished dressing Hermione and had disposed of her ruined clothing, "you will tell her zat eef she starts bleeding again, or eef she notices a decrease in movement from ze child, she should let me know immediately?"

Ron nodded mechanically. Now that the crisis had subsided, reality was starting to set in.  _Hermione is pregnant_ , he told himself, trying to wrap his mind around the concept.  _Pregnant._  And she hadn't told him. At that thought, hurt and confusion began to intrude on his prior feeling of euphoric relief, dulling its brilliance, spreading through his subconscious like a virus.

Why hadn't she told him?

"Good," Fleur said, as she waved her wand at the door, and it unlocked itself and flew open. "Also, she should stay off 'er feet as much as possible een ze next few days. 'Er body needs to 'eal." She paused, looking awkward as she made a show of stuffing her little bottles back into the pockets of her robes. Ron held Hermione's limp hand in his own as he watched her shallow breathing, and she stirred slightly at his touch, breathing his name.

"Am I right to assume," Fleur said slowly, carefully, "zat you are ze fa-zer?"

He nodded perfunctorily once more, the word circulating repeatedly in his head:  _father, father, father._  He was going to be a father, and Hermione hadn't told him. It was all so glaringly obvious now: how sick she'd been and all the weight she'd lost, and then how she'd suddenly "recovered" and had begun to put the weight back on. All that food that she had risked taking every week, when before they'd been scrounging up edible mushrooms. The sweatshirts she'd borrowed from him—he'd been touched by it, thinking that she wanted to be close to him. But that wasn't it at all, was it? It had been a deliberate attempt to conceal the fact that she was pregnant from him.

He thought back to that night all those months ago, when he'd behaved like a complete buffoon, when he'd selfishly and cruelly used her to prove some stupid point that he couldn't even remember now, and then he'd walked out on her three nights later and hadn't returned for weeks—never mind that that last part hadn't been for his lack of a desire to return.

When he thought about it, he didn't blame her for not wanting to tell him. He knew that he didn't really deserve her forgiveness for the way he'd acted, and he couldn't blame Hermione if he, Ron, wasn't the sort of father that she wanted for her child.

He was just an immature prat, after all.

All of these thoughts flashed through his mind in a matter of seconds, and Fleur was nodding, a small smile turning up the corners of her lips. "In zat case, congratulations, Ron. I shall be an aunt!" She hugged him briefly, and Ron could only work up the energy to respond half-heartedly, as his mind was still whirring away.

He was distracted by a sudden bang and a clatter from outside the sitting room, and Ron was launched abruptly back to the reality of their situation. "Harry!" he shouted, springing to his feet hastily, but it was only Dean, hefting the goblin, Griphook, who was apparently too weak to walk.

"Harry's all right," Dean said reassuringly as Ron took hold of Griphook's legs, helping him carry the goblin up the stairs and into the bedroom that Ron had stayed in the last time he was at Shell Cottage, after he'd walked out on Harry and Hermione. Fleur was following close behind them, and when Dean and Ron left the goblin—who was still clutching Gryffindor's sword—she was already at work on him, her little bottles now lined up neatly on the nightstand.

"That house-elf that rescued us," Dean was saying as they descended the stairs together, "he died. I guess…you and Harry knew him? Anyway, Harry seems pretty torn up about it. He wanted to dig a grave without using magic—that's what he's doing now."

"Dobby's dead?" Ron murmured stupidly when they'd reached the foot of the stairs, feeling torn between wanting to stay with Hermione and wanting to go out and be with his best friend, who was no doubt sick with grief.

He missed the way Dean averted his eyes awkwardly when Ron glanced between the door to the sitting room and the door leading back outside. "So…" Dean said hesitantly, "how's Hermione?"

Before he had the chance to respond, however, the front door burst open, and Bill traipsed back inside, Luna close on his heels. "You," he said, jabbing a finger at Ron, "I want to talk to you alone. Now."

Ron wordlessly followed his brother into the kitchen, not daring to argue. When Bill was angry, it was the silent, composed sort of anger, which, strangely enough, Ron had always found more intimidating than their mum's brand of anger—which usually involved a lot of shouting.

"Did Dean tell you?" Bill asked as he shut the door with a flick of his wand, turning to face Ron, his arms crossed over his chest. With the scars on his face, he somehow seemed more intimidating than he had before, more…well, wolf-like.

"About Dobby? Yeah, he did. I should really go be with Harry—"

"How's Hermione?" Bill cut him off.

"She—I mean—she and the—they're fine—Fleur said they'll be fine."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it." He paused, his eyes boring into Ron's. "What the hell is going on here, Ron? First those two kids show up here with Mr. Ollivander, who's barely alive, and then you turn up with Hermione, who's been tortured and is  _pregnant—_ ," he practically spat the word, "—but I'll get back to that in a minute. And then here comes Harry with a dead house-elf and an injured goblin."

"Bill, you know I can't talk about it," he said firmly, refusing to be bullied even as he felt his ears warm. Bill always knew how to get him to confess to things when he was a kid, but he was no little kid anymore. He wouldn't be intimidated. "I already told you—Dumbledore left Harry a miss—"

"And what about impregnating Hermione?" Bill said scathingly, cutting him off again. "Was that part of this top-secret mission that Dumbledore gave you?"

"What? No!" replied Ron, his ears turning impossibly hotter. "That was…an accident..."

"An accident," Bill repeated. "I'd say that's one helluva whoopsie, Ronnie-boy, and Mummy isn't going to be able to wave her wand and fix this one. Do you realize how serious this is? We're in the middle of a  _war_. Harry and Hermione are already fugitives, and you are, too, now, by the way—the Death Eaters know you're with Harry, so the whole family is bound to be targeted soon—"

"Did Lupin get this same lecture?" Ron demanded defensively. "I mean, he's a werewolf, hunted just as much as the blood traitors and Muggle-borns, but when he and Tonks decided—"

"Remus isn't my kid brother!" Bill cut in, raising his voice for the first time. "What he and Tonks—a grown, married couple—do is their own business, but more importantly, they're not on a top-secret mission from Dumbledore, are they? And yet you and Hermione thought it would be a good idea to have unprotected sex—and yes, I'm making the assumption that you're the father, because, well, sadly, this sort of behavior from you doesn't surprise me. Although, I  _am_ pretty disappointed in Hermione. I always thought she was brighter—"

"Don't you dare have a go at her!" Ron snarled, his arms crossing over his chest as he stood at his full height, facing down his elder brother. "You can hurl insults at me, call me stupid, irresponsible, immature, whatever, but don't you say a word against her! Harry and I would probably be  _dead_ by now if it wasn't for her! Besides, you wouldn't stand there and listen to me insult Fleur!"

"All right, fair enough," Bill replied evenly. A brief moment of silence passed between the two brothers while Ron stewed in anger. "So I assumed correctly, then," Bill stated after a moment. "You're the father."

Ron's silence was answer enough.

"Why was she out there for that long?" Bill asked with a resigned sigh. "Why didn't you send her here? Bloody hell, Ron, I don't know exactly what happened, but I can guess who her torturer was, and I can also guess that she's lucky to be  _alive—_ "

"I didn't know, okay?" Ron said quietly, focusing on the door over Bill's shoulder. "I just found out. She didn't tell me…" Now that he thought about it, the truth came to him: "She knew I'd try to send her away, that's why she didn't tell me. But she also knows that Harry and I need her—and she's right, on both counts." He closed his eyes briefly, running one hand through his hair. "Bloody hell, what a mess."

Bill nodded quietly. "I've had my say," he said after a moment. "I won't bring this up again, because what's done is done. Welcome to adulthood, Ron. I just hope for that kid's sake that you three know what the hell you're doing."

He walked forward, patting Ron awkwardly on the shoulder. "Go be with your friend. We'll look after Hermione. She'll be fine."

Ron, still shaking with anger, merely nodded as he left the kitchen, stopping only to peek into the sitting room at Hermione. She was still sleeping, and Luna had taken Ron's place in front of the couch, holding Hermione's hand. Luna was singing what sounded like a lullaby, and he found himself simultaneously entranced and surprised. He hadn't known Luna could sing.

"I think it's wonderful, you know," she said without looking at him, her singing halting abruptly. "A baby conceived, carried, and born during a time of strife is considered an omen of good luck—a sign that things are changing for the better." Then she turned her head to smile at him. "I know you'll be a wonderful father, Ron."

"Er, thanks, Luna," he said, feeling awkward but forcing a smile even though smiling was the last thing he felt like doing. Bill's words were still ringing through his head:  _I just hope for that kid's sake that you three know what the hell you're doing._

He wished they did. He  _really_ wished they did.

"Luna, keep an eye on her, would you? I'm going to go help Harry."

"Of course."

"Wait up, I'll come along, too," Dean spoke up from where he'd been sitting quietly in a nearby armchair.

Dean joined him, and they silently retrieved spades from the nearby shed, trekking along to the far side of the garden where Harry was digging. Overhead, the sky had that bluish hue that indicated that dawn was rapidly approaching.

The air smelled like the sea, which Ron loved, but on this early morning it was no comfort to him. The future was so uncertain; the life of a kid he'd only just learned about hung in the balance. A kid whose future depended on whether Harry could actually defeat You-Know-Who.

"How's Hermione?" Harry asked as Ron and Dean jumped down in the hole with him. "How's…?"

"Good. Better. They—they're gonna be fine. Both of them."

Harry nodded, looking relieved, and it abruptly occurred to Ron to wonder whether Harry had known about Hermione's pregnancy all this time. It was difficult to imagine that Harry wouldn't have insisted that she leave if he'd known, but now wasn't the time to ask.

They worked in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, and Ron found himself considering that he had good reason to be angry at Hermione for her deception. Bill was right—she was lucky to be alive, and if Ron had known, he would never have let her be in a position to get hurt like that in the first place.

However, he found that he  _wasn't_  angry at her. (Hell, Ron wasn't even sure he'd be angry at Harry if he found out he'd known all along.) He was just thankful that she and his kid were safe and alive for now. And after hearing her screams, after her bravery, after she'd saved their arses countless times, he knew that he and Harry were lost without her. Hermione knew it, too. And she loved him, so she hadn't told him.

It was quite the paradox when he thought about it.

Or a great, big bloody mess.


	14. A Memorial

_This segment is set within the beginning of DH, Chapter Twenty-Four: The Wandmaker._

oOo

Hermione slowly drifted back to awareness as if she was at the bottom of a vast sea, kicking her arms and legs desperately, struggling fruitlessly to break the surface: Ron would be there, waiting for her, and so would her baby, the red-haired, doll-faced child from her dreams.

As consciousness attempted to take hold, she seemed to vaguely remember wetness on her face…Ron's tears…and Fleur's voice from somewhere far away, murmuring instructions that had seemed important at the time, but Hermione couldn't remember what those instructions had been.

Had she survived, then? She seemed to recall being tortured, cruelly, endlessly, and being asked questions that she didn't have the answers to. Bellatrix's evil, twisted smirk flashed to the forefront of her mind, followed by Greyback's greedy, dirty leer… He'd said he was going to rape her, rape her and then kill her… Hermione's stomach rolled, but that must have been a good sign: It meant she was still alive. He hadn't killed her—yet.

But, wait…someone was singing, and the sound pulled her closer to the murky surface of the ocean. It was the same tune she recalled from her childhood, and it induced images of a pink-painted nursery and a hand-carved rocking chair. She recalled lying against her mother's breast, her favorite blanket with the embroidered ducks tucked securely around her. "Mum?" she whispered weakly, her voice nothing more than a dry scratch. Had she gone home? Did her parents remember her?

At that thought, she felt a sudden, inexplicable joy.  _Home:_ where her mum and dad loved her, and they'd protect her, and she'd never experience unimaginable horrors again. She struggled desperately to open her eyes. She wanted to see their endlessly kind, loving faces.

"Hello, Hermione," a voice said gently, and she felt a warm palm on her cheek, grounding her, guiding her toward the murky light. "Welcome back. You're safe now."

Hermione frowned slightly. That wasn't her mother's voice, but it was almost as welcome and friendly. "Luna?" This time the sound issuing from her throat was audible, the syllables perfectly formed.

"Yes. You and your baby are safe, Ron and Harry are safe."

Finally her eyelids obeyed her command, and as they fluttered open, a cozy, pleasant room with soft lighting came into focus. There were faces around her, but the closest one was right in front of her, smiling down at her.

"What happened?" Hermione asked Luna, attempting to sit up, but her body felt like one enormous, giant ache. Her stomach rolled again as she remembered Bellatrix's horrible visage:  _CRUCIO!_ she'd screamed, and then that terrible, rolling, indescribable agony…

"Hey, take it easy," someone said from a nearby armchair, standing quickly to place a firm but gentle restraining hand on her arm. "You've been through quite a trauma." Hermione recognized his voice before her eyes focused on his familiar scarred face: It was Bill Weasley, Ron's oldest brother. Which meant she must be at Shell Cottage.

"'Ere, 'Ermione, dreenk zis," said another familiar voice, and Fleur was bending over her next to Luna. Normally immaculate, she seemed generally ruffled, strands of her silvery blonde hair escaping its simple ponytail and hanging haphazardly in her face. She had been busy, and Hermione had an idea that she wasn't Fleur's only patient. "It will 'elp with ze nausea."

Lying back down on the pillow that someone had placed beneath her head, Hermione complied, sipping carefully the golden-hued liquid that Fleur placed against her lips, and the relief she experienced was immediate and absolute. As she drank, a warm glow settled over her stomach, stifling before killing the nausea completely.

"Better?" Fleur asked with a small smile.

"Much—thank you." At the same instant there was a flutter of welcome movement from her abdomen, and Hermione's hand drifted there subconsciously, the relief rushing through her, soothing her in a similar manner that the nausea potion had.  _Hello, baby. I'm so sorry for what happened…_

Unexpectedly, Fleur bent down and hugged her tightly, and Hermione felt momentarily bemused.

"Congratulations, 'Ermione," Fleur said as she leaned back up. "You are 'aving a leetle girl!"

"Yes, congratulations, Hermione," agreed Luna cheerfully. "Ooh, I could tell by the way you're carrying her that it's a girl."

Bill was silent, and Hermione got the impression that he didn't share in Luna's and his wife's enthusiasm concerning this turn of events. She didn't blame him; to say that this wasn't exactly an ideal situation was more than an understatement.

Abruptly, something occurred to her, and her stomach gave an odd little flip that had nothing to do with the child growing there. Ron would know. Oh, God, and she hadn't told him… She felt ill at the idea that he'd found out this way. Did he hate her now? She swallowed hard before speaking again: "Where's—?"

"Ron?" Bill asked knowingly, and she could read in that one syllable that there were things he wanted to say to her, but he was restraining himself. He was Ron's big brother, after all, and he would know about her deception by now. "He's in the garden with Harry." His tone was decidedly gentler this time. "The house-elf—Dobby—died. They're digging his grave."

Hermione felt stunned—shocked. "Dobby…?"

"He rescued us," Luna explained simply. "We—me, Ron, Harry, Dean, Mr. Ollivander, and the goblin—were all in the cellar of…" Her voice trailed off, her eyes flashing toward Bill, and Hermione got the impression that Luna didn't want to say too much in front of him and Fleur. Luna had always been keenly perceptive, and Hermione knew that she would have guessed that Harry would want the details known to as few people as possible. "Anyway, Dobby rescued all of us. He was very brave."

"How…?" Hermione had apparently lost the capacity to speak in complete thoughts.

"A knife," Bill answered for her. "He was stabbed."

Yet again, her stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. She felt Bellatrix's blade pressing against the flesh of her belly, and she had to stifle the urge to rip open the dressing gown that someone—presumably Fleur—had dressed her in to check with her own eyes that the wound was closed. As if sensing her panic, Fleur placed her hand comfortingly on Hermione's arm. "Your baby ees fine," she whispered reassuringly.

"Harry," Hermione said, voicing her next concern. "He must be beside himself—"

"Ron and Dean are with him," Bill said quietly. "He'll be fine. You need to focus on your baby right now. You need to get well for her."

"Would you like to wash?" Fleur asked. "You may use ze bathroom een mine and Bill's room for privacy."

"Yes, please." When she tried to sit up, however, she discovered that she was much too weak to do so on her own, but three sets of hands were there to help her rise to her wobbly, jelly-like legs.

Bill relinquished his hold on her once she was steady, allowing Luna and Fleur to guide her out of the sitting room and up the stairs. They both had a supportive arm around her, but even still, Hermione collapsed in exhaustion on Bill and Fleur's bed once they'd made the journey. As Luna disappeared inside the loo to run a bath, Fleur moved about her bedroom, gathering new clothing items for Hermione to wear while she explained about how Hermione had had a placental abruption, but that she'd repaired it.

"You are very lucky zat it wasn't worse," Fleur was saying as she led her into the bathroom and helped her undress. "If blood 'ad leaked into za placenta, it would 'ave been much more difficult to mend. Luckily Ron 'ad 'is wits about 'im and Apparated 'ere."

She helped Hermione step into the warm bath then, and Hermione relished in the feeling of the soothing water enveloping her. She hadn't enjoyed an actual bath since…well, since over the summer when she'd stayed at the Burrow and had slept in Ginny's room every night.

"About Ron," Hermione said hesitantly as Fleur took the silver-backed hairbrush from her vanity and began brushing Hermione's hair gently, "did he seem…angry? He—he didn't know…about my pregnancy."

Fleur smiled kindly as she worked. "'E loves you very much," she said simply.

"Oh, yes, that's obvious," Luna agreed from where she'd been sitting at Fleur's vanity, sniffing the small perfume bottles lined up on an elegant glass tray. Hermione saw her wrinkle her nose in distaste.

Hermione flushed slightly at their words. "But he didn't seem—"

"'E showed no-zing but concern and tenderness—and relief when I told 'im zat you and ze baby would be fine."

Hermione took a deep breath, closing her eyes and allowing a relief of her own to wash over her as Fleur continued to brush her hair. She had some reservations, however. It was very possible that it simply hadn't had time to sink in yet. Ron may be relieved right now, but considering that the immediate danger they'd been in had likely overridden any other emotions, he was bound to feel hurt and betrayed once he'd had the opportunity to absorb the truth of the fact that she'd hidden her pregnancy from him.

She felt an abrupt, keen shame for having kept the secret for so long. Harry had been right, Ron had had a right to know, yet every time she'd started to tell him, she simply hadn't been able to do it. She'd feared that he and Harry would join together to work against her, insisting that she leave for her safety and the safety of her child.

Yet, thinking back, she  _had_ been right about them needing her, hadn't she? She, Hermione, had saved Harry's life back at Godric's Hollow. Also, it had been her quick thinking at Luna's house that had likely saved Luna's father's life, and her quick wit had also probably bought them time at Malfoy Manor. She recalled how Lucius and Draco hadn't been sure whether or not Harry was, in fact, Harry, due to the Stinging Jinx that Hermione had performed on him prior to being pulled from the tent.

What if Hermione hadn't been around? What if she'd been at the Burrow, or here at Shell Cottage, tucked safely out of harm's way, preparing to have a baby?

Even admitting to herself that the incident at the Lovegood home would never have occurred if she hadn't been around to suggest they go there in the first place, she thought about what would have happened if Lucius Malfoy hadn't dawdled over confirming Harry's identity. He would have touched the Dark Mark immediately upon confirming Harry's identity on sight, summoning Voldemort, before Bellatrix had entered the room and panicked at the sight of Gryffindor's sword.

Assuming that, theoretically, Harry had somehow survived Godric's Hollow without Hermione, he would definitely have perished at Malfoy Manor.

When it came down to it, she had to consider what was most important in the scheme of things: Yes, she'd taken a risk with her child's life, and she hadn't told Ron about her pregnancy, but if Harry had been killed because Hermione hadn't been around at those critical moments, all would be lost anyway. Her little girl with Ron would have no chance at a future.

She didn't know how she was going to make Ron see this, but she would have to try—and hope that he would forgive her.

The words  _for the greater good_  floated through her mind then, a concept that Grindelwald and evidently a young Dumbledore had used to justify conquering Muggles by force, but Hermione pushed that unpleasant thought aside as she finished up her bath.

Though she felt much better, she was still quite weak, and she required Fleur and Luna's help to stand up and step out of the tub. She avoided looking at her reflection in the mirror as she was led back out into the bedroom. She already knew she looked dreadful; she had no desire to have that confirmed visually.

Fleur helped her dress again, and as they finished up and Fleur offered her use of her bed if she wished to rest some more, there was a gentle knock at the door. "It's me," called Bill from the other side. It swung open when Fleur aimed her wand at it in response to her husband's voice. "The boys should be about done digging Dobby's grave by now," Bill announced, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms over his chest.

"We should have a memorial service, don't you think?" Luna suggested from where she sat next to Hermione.

They all agreed wordlessly.

"You should stay 'ere and rest," Fleur said, turning to Hermione.

"No," she said firmly. "I need to be with Harry and Ron." What she didn't know then was that those eight words would become her adage over the next several weeks.

However, in the present moment she got no argument.

Minutes later, Bill and Fleur were helping her down the stairs and out the door, half-carrying her through the garden. Her eyes caught sight of the familiar figures of Dean and Ron through the still-darkened early morning, sitting on what appeared to be the edge of a deep hole, and huddled on the ground was a small, still form: Dobby.

Her heart raced in her chest, partly with grief over the elf's untimely death, but also partly with nerves at facing Ron.

He didn't glance up at them as they approached.

"We should close his eyes," Luna said, and finally Ron, Dean, and Harry—from down in the hole—turned to look at them.

Ron, to Hermione's crushing relief, reached for her the moment he laid eyes on her, and she went to him immediately, her arms weaving around his waist as his own arms wrapped about her shoulders, his face pressing into her hair. "Love you," she thought she heard him breathe ever so softly, but it might have been her hopeful imagination.

Nevertheless, she tightened her arms around his waist, hoping that that would suffice to convey, for the time being, that she loved him and that she was sorry she had lied to him—even if she wasn't sorry she had stayed. She could never be sorry for that.

Seconds later, Harry had placed Dobby's small body into the grave, and Luna took the lead, speaking words of gratitude that Hermione couldn't quite focus on, as tears had begun to pour down her face.

Ron cleared his throat above her after a moment. "Yeah…thanks, Dobby," he said in a thick voice, the vibrations rumbling through her body as he spoke.

"Thanks," muttered Dean.

"Goodbye, Dobby," Harry said, his voice wavering slightly.

After Bill raised his wand, filling the hole with a neat mound of dirt, Hermione gently disentangled herself from Ron's arms, moving to Harry, who allowed her to hold him briefly. "I'm glad you're okay," he whispered just before she pulled herself from his embrace, but he was distracted by his grief for Dobby.

Ron's arm slipped back around her shoulder then, and she silently allowed him to lead her back to the house. Halfway there, when it became apparent that she was too exhausted to walk, he hefted her into his arms.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, reaching up to touch his face. "Ron, I'm so sorry for not telling you."

He smiled at her, obviously trying to convey understanding, but she could see the underlying hurt in his expression—hurt that wouldn't be so easily repaired.


	15. A Reconciliation

_This segment is set within the beginning of DH, Chapter Twenty-Five: Shell Cottage._

oOo

Hermione had not had an opportunity to speak to Ron properly.

After she, Harry, and Ron had consecutively spoken to Griphook and Mr. Ollivander, and Harry had made the decision—much to Ron's adamant disapproval—not to race Voldemort to the Elder Wand, it was all Hermione could do not to collapse in exhaustion.

Harry lingered in the garden that morning, facing the sea, obviously mulling over his decision, when Ron, obviously sensing that she was on the verge of collapsing, took her back inside. He didn't say a word as he led her back to Bill and Fleur's sitting room, and Hermione knew that he was fretting over Harry's decision not to try to beat Voldemort to the wand.

Luna and Dean, sitting together on the sofa, dived out of her way, making room for her, when Fleur, who'd just come back down from checking on Griphook and Mr. Ollivander, insisted that she use her own bed.

"I can sleep wiz Luna, and Bill can sleep down 'ere until you are well," she said generously, and Hermione was in no condition to argue, as much as she might have liked to. She hated the idea of putting Bill and Fleur out of their own bedroom, but she simply didn't have the strength to disagree.

She sensed Bill nearby as Ron carried her up the stairs, Fleur following close behind.

"I just changed ze sheets," Fleur was saying to Ron in a low voice, as Hermione's eyes had already begun to drift closed, "but eef you need more blankets zey are 'ere, in zis cupboard, along wiz clean towels. Let me know when she wakes, and I'll bring food…"

Fleur's words began blurring together until they were nonsensical to Hermione's brain, which felt like downright mush. Ron's hands were on her upper arms, and he guided her down onto Bill and Fleur's bed, tucking the comforter up around her aching, abused body. She felt his weight settle on the mattress next to her, on top of the comforter, the heavy, comforting weight of his arm coming around her waist. Silently, he embraced both Hermione and the child she carried, his lips pressing softly to the shell of her ear.

She felt grateful for his tenderness and his care, but she was distracted, her mind buzzing with everything that she'd learned that morning: Harry was quite certain that there was a Horcrux being held in the Lestranges' vault. According to Mr. Ollivander, the Elder Wand was a very real, powerful magical object, and, according to Harry, it was now currently in the possession of Voldemort, who'd broken into Dumbledore's tomb to pry it from his cold fingers.

Hermione felt frightened by that thought, and she shivered even though it was quite warm beneath the comforter and the weight of Ron's arm. The bright glow behind her heavy eyelids was diminished suddenly, and she knew that Fleur had drawn the curtains closed.

She fought to stay awake… She still needed to talk to Ron…

Between her body's burning need to repair itself and the soothing sound of the nearby rushing sea, however, she didn't stand a chance. She was asleep before Fleur had quietly pulled the door shut behind them.

oOo

She awoke to a grumbling stomach and a throat as dry as the Gobi Desert.

For a moment, as Hermione lied in the darkness, trying to regain her bearings, she couldn't remember where she was or whose soft bed she was sleeping in or when they'd set up camp by the sea…

Everything came back to her in a rush, however: the Snatchers that had pulled them from the tent, the nightmarish events at Malfoy Manor, waking up here at Shell Cottage, Dobby's death and burial, learning about the existence of the Elder Wand.

She sat up in the dark, attempting to orient herself, her eyes blinking rapidly in an attempt to adjust. The first thing her eyes focused on was a bowl of soup on the nearby nightstand and a pitcher of water. She picked up the bowl with shaky hands, downing it greedily, not really tasting it, and not caring that it was room temperature. Then she picked up the pitcher, ignoring the glass next to it, and drank deeply, the cool water soothing on her throat, quenching her thirst.

Next, she drank the nausea potion that Fleur had left next to the food—just in case her stomach decided to protest how quickly she'd consumed her meal. In her now-full stomach, her baby fluttered in apparent appreciation, and Hermione rubbed her belly in reply.  _Feel better now, baby?_

After wrapping up in the bathrobe laid out on a nearby armchair, Hermione stumbled to the bathroom on unsteady legs, musing that she somehow felt even more tired than she had before her slumber. How long had she been asleep, anyway? She felt disoriented as she washed her face, brushed her teeth, and wandered back into the bedroom.

Her eyes searched unsuccessfully for a clock on the wall, but the fact that there was very little light streaming from beneath the drawn curtains indicated that nightfall had come again, which meant she'd been sleeping for…ten hours? Twelve?

Deciding to check whether anyone else is the house was awake—and admittedly wondering where Ron was—she pushed open the door, peeking out onto the darkened landing. The doors to the adjoining rooms were closed, and there wasn't any light spilling from beneath them.

Hermione could hear hushed voices from downstairs, and she felt relieved to know that others were still awake. She stepped out onto the landing, rounded the corner—

And ran straight into Ron, who had just reached the top of the stairs.

"Hermione," he said, sounding startled as he steadied her, his hands on her shoulders. "I was just coming up to check on you." He took a small step back, and she didn't miss the way his eyes flashed toward her midsection. "H—how do you feel?"

"Good," she said with a nervous smile, averting her eyes from his scrutiny. "How's Harry? And has Griphook said whether he'd help us yet?"

"No word from the goblin yet," Ron replied, indicating that they should step back into Bill and Fleur's room to talk in private, and she complied silently, feeling slightly nervous at the idea of being alone with him—alone and conscious, that was. "He's a piece of work, that one, if you ask me," he added, shutting the door behind them before turning back to face her. As his arms crossed over his broad chest, Hermione was reminded of Bill in that moment, with the glaring exception of a lack of facial scars. She also noted that he was clean-shaven and appeared well-rested.

"And Harry hasn't said much all day," he added. "He mostly just sits outside watching the sea. I still can't believe he didn't want to go after the Elder Wand…" He shook his head, a pained expression on his face. "You-Know-Who has it now…"

"Yes, well, you heard what he said—Dumbledore wanted us to look for Horcruxes. He didn't want us to have that wand." She heard in her own voice the way she said  _that wand_ , like it was a dirty thing. She was still having difficulty believing that it actually existed.

Whether the  _wand_  existed or not, however, she still firmly refused to believe in the Resurrection Stone. After all, though Ollivander believed in the existence of the Elder Wand, he had claimed that he'd never heard of the Deathly Hallows.

"So how long was I sleeping?" Hermione asked in a deliberate attempt to change the subject.

"Almost fifteen hours," Ron replied. "It's nearing midnight. I tried waking you to eat earlier, but you were pretty out of it." She saw his eyes flash across the darkened bedroom. "I see you found your dinner."

She nodded, smiling slightly, as an awkward silence descended on them, the air thick with all of the things unsaid between them. There was so much to say, but Hermione wasn't even sure where to begin.

"I don't…hold anything against you, just so you know," Ron said suddenly, sparing her from having to start. His voice was low as he added: "I know why you did it. Can't claim to be happy about it, but I understand why."

Hermione shook her head, abrupt tears springing to her eyes as she hugged herself. "I should have told you," she said in a whisper. "It was wrong…and I—I tried to so many times, but I was afraid you'd try to make me leave…"

"I know. And you're right—I would have."

"You needed me.  _Harry_  needed me. He'd probably be dead if I…if I'd gone away."

"I know," he repeated, his voice a low whisper.

"But that doesn't excuse the fact that I didn't tell you. Regardless of what you might have said, or what sort of rows we might have had, you deserved to know."

"But did I really? After the way I treated you?" His voice was full of regret and shame. "You're a smart woman, Hermione. Too smart to let your kid call some bloke who treated you like I did 'Daddy.'"

She bit her lower lip, closing her eyes briefly while taking a shaky breath. Hermione didn't feel like she deserved his forgiveness or understanding, and yet he was clearly harboring guilt of his own. They'd both hurt each other, and she silently vowed that it stopped here. "But that's what I want, Ron. I _want_  her to call you 'Daddy.' I want you in her life. I want you in  _my_  life—but we have to stop hurting each other."

He stared at her for a moment, as if what he was hearing was too good to be true. "Really?" he finally said. "You…still want me?"

Hermione laughed—she actually laughed. "Of course, Ron. Do you still want  _me_?"

"Umm…how can I put this?" he said with a grin of his own. "Is Severus Snape in need of a good shampooing? Hell. Effing. Yeah."

She laughed briefly before turning serious again. "Then it's a deal. We forgive each other, but we're honest with each other from now on—and no intentionally hurting each other."

"It's a deal," he agreed seriously, taking a deep breath and gazing at her like he wasn't sure whether they should shake on it or—

Hermione stepped forward on impulse, pushing herself flush against his body as she cradled his face in her hands. Standing on the tips of her toes, she pressed her lips against his in a chaste but heartfelt kiss, and his arms came around her waist, holding her close to his body. She knew that he could feel their baby pressed between them, and it felt  _so right_ to have Ron holding them so close _._  Her body roared to life at his nearness and at the fact that they were alone together and they were reconciled. His lips parted, and she delved her tongue between them with a moan of longing…

Abruptly, his head jerked away from hers. "I felt that!" he said in a tone of awe, and Hermione was confused for the space of a second before she realized that he was talking about their baby.

She smiled gently as she stepped back slightly, taking his large palm in hers and placing it on the bare flesh of her belly beneath the robe. She knew that there was still a scar there from Bellatrix's knife, but she tried not to think about that. "She's been moving quite a bit," Hermione whispered. "A lot more so when you're near, like she senses that her daddy is close."

The expression on Ron's face was possibly the goofiest thing that Hermione had ever seen, but also the most beautiful: It was full of wonderment and amazement and joy and jubilation and every positive emotion that she could think of. "You're amazing, you are," he whispered, the same words he'd spoken after they'd made love for the first time.

She felt herself blushing as she placed her hand over his. His palm was warm on her bare flesh, and it ignited a primal longing inside of her.

"So…," he cleared his throat, "so you're about…five months along, then? The last time we…was October…"

"Yes."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

Ron hesitated, and Hermione had an idea what he was going to say: "Did Harry know…I mean, before Malfoy Manor?"

"Yes, Harry knew," she confirmed. "He figured it out before…before you came back. He urged me to tell you, so I hope you won't be angry with him. He thought it was wrong to keep you in the dark, and he was right, of course."

Ron nodded as he absorbed what she was saying. "I can't believe he would've let you stay," he finally responded "especially after Godric's Hollow."

"I…convinced him. I told him I'd eat better and that I'd see a Muggle doctor."

"Did you? See a doctor, I mean?"

Hermione nodded slowly. "I had a sonogram picture—you know, Muggle technology that lets you see the baby in the womb?—but I left it in the tent." She paused, smiling sadly. "I wish I still had it. Of everything that was left behind, that's what I regret the most: the only picture of our baby."

"What did it look like?" Ron breathed, looking entranced.

"In all honesty?" she said with a laugh. "A bit like a bean, actually. Although," she added teasingly, "I think she might have your head, because it took up half her body mass…"

"I'm sure it's because she has a big brain, like her mum," Ron chuckled.

"Just as long as she doesn't have my hair. Or my teeth, come to think of it."

"I like your hair," Ron said softly, pulling her into his arms once more. "And your teeth."

"Hmm," Hermione replied mildly as she returned his embrace, her arms encircling his waist. "Then you must've forgotten what they looked like prior to fourth year."

They merely held each other for several moments, both lost in their own thoughts.

"Everything's riding on Harry, isn't it?" Ron finally said, pulling back slightly so he could look at her face. "I mean, our kid's future depends on whether Harry can kill You-Know-Who."

"All our futures do. Which is why we need to do everything we can to help Harry."

Ron groaned then: "The unbeatable wand! How is Harry supposed to beat him now?"

Hermione rolled her eyes as she disengaged from his embrace. "Don't start with that again. We worry about the Horcruxes:  _That's_  how we defeat You-Know-Who. Besides, if Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald, then evidently the wand isn't  _that_ unbeatable, now, is it? So it  _does_  depend on the wizard, after all, just as I've said all along."

"I suppose," Ron grumbled, obviously unconvinced.

"Come on," Hermione said suddenly, taking his hand. "Let's give Bill and Fleur their room back. I'm feeling much better now—there's no reason to stay here."

"I can think of a couple of reasons," Ron muttered with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows, and she laughed as she rolled her eyes:

"Right, in your brother's bed. Very tasteful, Ron." She kissed him briefly before pulling him along, back out onto the landing.

"Blimey, Hermione, I was just talking about sleeping, I don't know what  _you_  were thinking, you scarlet woman, you…"

Hermione burst into laughter at that, the first time she'd truly laughed in… Well, she couldn't remember when.


	16. A Condition

_This segment is set within DH, Chapter Twenty-Five: Shell Cottage._

oOo

Two days later, Griphook agreed to help the trio break into Gringotts, but only at a price: Gryffindor's sword, which he claimed that Godric Gryffindor had stolen from Ragnuk the First. This, of course, proved to be problematic, as the sword was the one and only means they had of destroying Voldemort's Horcruxes.

"Maybe he's lying," Harry said following the meeting with the goblin in regard to his claims of thievery. "Griphook. Maybe Gryffindor didn't take the sword. How do we know the goblin version of history's right?"

Hermione knew that Harry found the idea of Godric Gryffindor being a thief to be highly disagreeable, and she couldn't blame him. They were all proud to call themselves Gryffindors, after all, the Hogwarts house that represented honor and courage. "Does it make a difference?" she asked. After all, as unpleasant as the thought was, it seemed a tad irrelevant to their present situation.

"Changes how I feel about it."

She sighed inwardly.

"We'll tell him he can have the sword after he's helped us get into the vault," Harry said after a moment of silent contemplation, "but we'll be careful to avoid telling him exactly  _when_  he can have it."

Even as a slow grin spread across Ron's face, Hermione felt alarmed by what Harry was suggesting. "Harry, we can't—"

"He can have it after we've used it on all the Horcruxes," he said quickly, interrupting her. "I'll make sure he gets it. I'll keep my word."

"That could be years!" she exclaimed indignantly.

"I know that, but  _he_  needn't. I won't be lying…really." He met her eyes defiantly, wordlessly daring her to argue, but she had to silently concede that he was right. After all, she didn't have an alternative solution to offer.

"I don't like it," she finally mumbled.

"Nor do I, much," Harry agreed.

"Well, I think it's genius," Ron stated, jumping up as if that settled it. "Let's go and tell him."

In the small bedroom where Griphook awaited them, Hermione stared at the floor, frowning as Harry made his proposal. If the goblin sensed any deception from Harry, however, he did not show it. He merely offered Harry a handshake, apparently unsuspecting of the planned deception, and the deal was sealed.

The four of them set about their preparations for the infiltration immediately, and, as luck would have it, it turned out that Fleur hadn't destroyed the clothing that Hermione had been wearing that day at Malfoy Manor, and from the borrowed, blood-stained sweatshirt was picked a single long, black strand of hair: a hair that belonged to none other than Bellatrix Lestrange.

"There's really only enough for one of us," Hermione said three weeks later as she studied their Polyjuice Potion supply by the light of her wand. It was nearing ten o'clock, and Griphook had been moved back into the bedroom he shared with Mr. Ollivander by night. This room, the smallest one, was shared by Hermione and Luna at night, but Luna was currently still downstairs with Dean, Bill, and Fleur.

"That'll be enough," replied Harry from where he sat perched on Luna's twin-sized bed, studying a map of Gringotts' deepest passageways, hand drawn by Griphook.

"I think it should be me," Hermione said slowly, not looking up from the potion bottle, bracing herself for the inevitable battle.

Ron—who'd been lounging across the bed behind her with his hand absently on her thigh, his long legs crossed at the ankles—sat up next to her abruptly. "What? What do you mean?"

Harry's eyes had also snapped sharply in her direction.

"I think that I should be the one to go as Bellatrix."

There was a silence-filled pause, and Hermione sighed inwardly. She'd been preparing herself for the moment when she'd have to tell them that she wasn't sitting this one out.

"You—you're joking, right?" Ron was the first to find his voice. "Bloody hell, Hermione, you're almost six months preg—"

"Yes, I'm well aware that I'm pregnant, Ron," she snapped, turning to face him on the bed. " _Pregnant_ —not crippled. As long as I'm physically capable—"

"Harry," Ron interrupted, beseeching his friend, "back me up on this one, mate. There's no way she's coming along—"

"It's not his choice!" Hermione replied, indignant, as Harry raised his hands in an  _I'm-staying-out-of-this-one_  sort of way.

"No, it's not, is it?" Ron replied angrily. "Because it's not his kid! That's  _my_  kid in there, so I reckon I have a say, same as you!"

"Could you keep your voices down?" Harry hissed, his eyes flashing toward the bedroom door. The voices from downstairs had gone quiet.

Hermione was fuming at Ron's immediate rejection of her participation, despite the fact that it was exactly what she had expected. "I'm tired," she said coldly, a clear dismissal. "I'm going to go to bed now."

Their argument continued over the course of the next several days. When they weren't locked in the bedroom with Griphook and Harry, Hermione and Ron could often be heard arguing in heated whispers in the hallway and in corners of rooms, much to Harry's chagrin.

"That's my kid in there, too!" had become Ron's refrain, jabbing his finger at Hermione's stomach, which never failed to cause her to throw up her hands in exasperation and storm away.

" _Would you two shut it?"_ Harry hissed at them on more than one occasion as Bill watched them with a raised eyebrow.

At mealtimes, Hermione and Ron faced away from each other in stony silences. Even though she'd anticipated this exact reaction from Ron, she honestly hadn't thought it would be this difficult to make him see things her way. After all, he'd already admitted that Harry would probably be dead if it hadn't been for her help—

There was a bang from the front door. Hermione looked up, startled from her silent fuming as Fleur came running out of the kitchen, looking frightened; several wands aimed at the door all at once.

"Who is it?" Bill called.

"It is I, Remus John Lupin!" a familiar voice responded over the howling wind, and fear jolted through Hermione. Had something bad happened? "I am a werewolf, married to Nymphadora Tonks, and you, the Secret-Keeper of Shell Cottage, told me the address and bade me come in an emergency!"

"Lupin," Bill muttered as he ran to the door, wrenching it open.

Lupin literally fell over the threshold, his appearance windswept and generally disheveled. "It's a boy!" he announced, his eyes sweeping the room at large. "We've named him Ted, after Dora's father!"

Hermione shrieked in excitement, her annoyance at Ron completely vanishing.

"Wha—? Tonks—Tonks has had the baby?"

"Yes, yes, she's had the baby!" Lupin shouted joyously, his pride evident as around the table the others expressed their excitement.

Hermione and Fleur both squealed, "Congratulations!" while Ron said, "Blimey, a baby!" The look on his face was the same goofy/beautiful expression he'd worn when he had felt their baby move for the first time. He caught her eye then, smiling gently, and Hermione couldn't help but grin back at him.

"Yes—yes—a boy," Lupin was saying as he strode around the table and hugged Harry. Hermione felt happy as she remembered the scene in the basement of Grimmauld Place. She'd fretted that Harry's relationship with Remus would never be repaired, but now those worries seemed to have been for naught. "You'll be godfather?" he asked as he released Harry.

"M-me?"

"You, yes, of course—Dora quite agrees, no one better—"

"I—yeah—blimey—" Harry had a delighted, astonished look on his face as Bill hurried to get wine while Fleur attempted to persuade Remus to join them for a drink.

"I can't stay long, I must get back," he said as he beamed around at them all, while Bill pressed a goblet into his hands. "Thank you, thank you, Bill."

After they had toasted to Teddy Remus Lupin, and Fleur was inquiring of Remus who the baby looked like, Hermione felt Ron's fingers touch her free hand beneath the table, and she squeezed his hand in response. She turned to find him smiling at her gently once more, and it was difficult to stay mad at him in this festive atmosphere, while celebrating a new life, and when Ron was looking at her with such tenderness in his expression.

Only after a second bottle of wine had been cracked open did Remus finally stagger to his feet, insisting that he must get back as he pulled on his traveling cloak. "Goodbye, goodbye—I'll try and bring some pictures in a few days' time—they'll all be so glad to know that I've seen you—"

He grasped hands with the men and hugged the women; he didn't seem to notice Hermione's subtly rotund stomach as they embraced, and she felt grateful that. The fewer people who knew about her pregnancy, the less complicated it would make things.

As he disappeared into the night, and the others began carrying stacks of goblets and empty plates into the kitchen, Hermione felt slightly awkward as she realized that Ron was watching her. "Can we—can we go somewhere to talk privately?" he said after a moment, and Hermione bit her lower lip as she nodded.

_Here we go again_ , she thought as she followed him upstairs. They entered the small room that they used by day to plan the Gringotts break-in with Griphook, and Ron turned toward the door, muttering, " _Muffliato,"_ as he pulled it shut behind them.

Hermione felt a flutter of nerves, similar to how she'd felt a couple of weeks ago, just prior to their very first discussion about her pregnancy.

"Tell me why you want to go with me and Harry so badly," he said after a moment, looking her straight in the eye.

"You already know why," Hermione replied just as unwaveringly. "I've already told you. We've already had this conversation—"

"Tell me again. One more time. Just humor me, Hermione."

"All right," she replied slowly, unsure of where he was going with this. "As I said before, we must do everything we can to help Harry, to ensure that he gets all of the Horcruxes, if we want our daughter to have any chance at all at a future—"

"All right, but why does it have to be  _you personally_?" he persisted. "Frankly, your lack of faith in me and Harry is a bit insulting."

"It's not that," she said, trying not to get frustrated. "Ron, if something happens to either of you, and I…" She swallowed hard. "I couldn't live with myself, knowing that things might have turned out differently had I been there. My ability to think under pressure has gotten us out of tough situations more than once, and if something happened because I wasn't there at a crucial moment…"

Hermione paused, picking her next words carefully, desperate to make him understand: "I know that my going will be a risk, Ron—believe me, I wouldn't choose this if I felt I  _had_  a choice—but if Harry fails, none of it will matter anyway, will it? If I come along…yes, our baby could die—we  _all_  could, in fact. If I  _don't_  come along, though, and you and Harry fail, our baby might  _still_  die. Or, even worse, she could grow up hunted, living a life of oppression and prejudice. I'm a Mudblood, Ron. And you're a blood traitor. If Harry doesn't kill You-Know-Who, what do you think will happen to our daughter?"

She was slightly out of breath as she ended her passionate speech, standing there awkwardly, waiting for Ron to respond.

"All right," he whispered.

"Excuse me?"

Ron cleared his throat. "I won't give you anymore argument. If you think you're supposed to come along, then I'll shut up and accept it…under one condition."

"Go on."

"Marry me."

She was stunned. Her mouth worked soundlessly, trying to form syllables that simply wouldn't come.

"Marry me," Ron repeated. "If we're gonna do this thing, you're right, we could all die. But if we're going to die I want to do it right, as husband and wife. If we  _don't_  die—and believe me, that's the outcome I'm going for—then I want to spend the rest of whatever time we have left as your husband. The only sure thing I know is that I love you and I want to marry you, Hermione. Right here. Right now."


	17. An Answer

_This segment is set within DH, Chapter Twenty-Five: Shell Cottage._

oOo

Time seemed to slow down for Hermione as she stared at Ron, attempting to process everything that he was saying. His blue eyes were as earnest, as serious as she'd ever seen them, and in that moment she truly saw the grown, matured man that he was on the brink of becoming.

… _if we're going to die I want to do it right, as husband and wife. If we_ don't _die—and believe me, that's the outcome I'm going for—then I want to spend the rest of whatever time we have left as your husband…_

She was trying to figure out exactly what had happened to that boy who'd rolled around on the floor of the Gryffindor common room, laughing at the idea of Harry sharing his first kiss with Cho. What had happened to that boy who'd been so jealous to learn that Hermione had kissed Viktor Krum that he'd decided to get back at her two years after the fact?

So much had happened since then; so much had changed. It was difficult for her to imagine that they were the same two people that they'd always been, but their entire relationship—from the moment when she'd first met him on the Hogwarts Express seven years ago—had been hurtling toward this pivotal point. Perhaps her  _whole life_ had been building toward this very moment.

If Hermione traveled back in time to last year and told herself that in a year's time she would be pregnant with Ron's child and that he would be proposing marriage, what would her reaction be?

She honestly had no idea. She had always had strong feelings for Ron, but she'd always imagined that she would live a little before settling down with a husband and children. However, the current state of things, what with the fall of the Ministry, and with Muggle-borns and blood traitors being hunted like animals, had at least served to put priorities back in their proper order: family and love before all else.

"You've gotta say something, Hermione," Ron said abruptly, nervously. His hands were shoved deep inside the pockets of his jeans, he was alternately distributing his weight between his feet, and he appeared more anxious than she had ever seen him.

Hermione swallowed hard, knowing in her heart what her answer was, but needing to know something indisputably before giving said answer. "Before I respond, I need to know something."

He nodded for her to continue.

"If I wasn't pregnant, would you still be asking me this? Right now, at this moment in time?"

"What do you think?" His tone wasn't offended; it was merely imploring.

"I think that…what I think is irrelevant. I want to hear you say it. Humor me, Ron," she repeated the words he'd spoken to her earlier.

"I know what I want," he replied. "It may've taken me a while to see it—when I think back… Merlin, I was a bloody idiot, wasn't I?"

She merely snorted at that.

He scrubbed his face absently with his hand. "Wish I was doing this a bit smoother. I don't even have a ring, but all that's just details, isn't it? I want you to be my wife, Hermione. Baby or not, that's what I want. And I hope…that you want the same thing." He sighed deeply. "Bloody hell, it's not really a condition at all. I still won't argue with you anymore, but I hope you'll choose to marry me because you  _want_  to. I know we're young, and I have a helluva lotta growing up to do still—and believe me, I'm working on that—but this whole we-could-die thing has really put things into perspective for me. Made me see what's important, y'know?"

"Yes." She spoke in a whisper, the corners of her lips tugging up in a small grin.

The expression on his face rivaled the moment, before they'd made love for the first time, when she had begun to take off her clothes: It was a combination of awe, elation, and  _holy-hell-this-can't-be-happening-to-me._

"Yes?" he repeated, his voice little more than a squawk, as if he hardly dared to believe his ears.

Hermione laughed as she stepped toward him, placing her hands on his face as she stood on the tips of her toes. "Yes," she kissed his forehead, "Yes—," his eyelids, "—yes," and, finally, his lips. She lingered there as his arms came around her, tightening, and she was lifted, her legs coming around his waist of their own accord and he carried her to the bed.

Her heart soared as his lips and tongue moved passionately with hers, and his knee applied gentle pressure to the area between her legs through the sweatpants she was wearing, and all Hermione could think was,  _Oh, God, yes, he's going to make love to me…_

It had been so long, months and months, and she'd craved this sort of physical intimacy more than she'd cared to admit. He was ready for her, as evidenced by the enticing bulge currently prodding into her hip.

"Hermione," Ron moaned reverently, his voice shaky with his desire, as one of his large hands slid up her shirt. His warm palm lingered momentarily on her rounded belly, caressing gently. There was love and tenderness in his expression, and Hermione—being as hormonally imbalanced as she was—nearly burst into tears.

In the next instant, however, he'd pushed her bra and shirt up over her breasts, and his hands were working her sensitive mounds, eradicating all else from her mind. Hermione gasped in pleasure at the sensation, the area between her legs becoming positively saturated with her need, and Ron responded by increasing the pressure there with his knee.

"These have gotten bigger," Ron commented, and had she not felt like she was going to implode with the force of her sexual desire, she might have laughed. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you…"

Feeling emboldened and slightly wicked, Hermione replied by sliding her hand between their bodies, delving inside his loose pants and grasping his hard, hot, velvety-smooth length of flesh, stroking slowly as he moaned and thrust into her palm. Her hand moved lower, gently but firmly cupping the twin weights directly beneath his shaft.

"These feel about the same," she whispered as he whimpered her name, this time in evident lust and desire.

There was a knock at the door. "Hermione?" It was Luna. "Fleur just wanted to know if you and Ron would care for some pudding?"

"Bloody hell," Ron gasped, his forehead pressing against Hermione's. "Impeccable timing, that one."

Hermione laughed, her voice still shaky with lust as she fumbled on the nightstand for the nearest wand, finding one and aiming it haphazardly at the door. "Tell her we'll be down in a moment, please, Luna," she said in as steady a voice as she could muster.

"Why do there have to be so many effing people in this house?" Ron grumbled with a chuckle as he sat up, attempting to compose himself while straightening his clothing. "But on second thought, maybe it's better this way. Maybe it's better if we do this right, y'know, wait 'til after we're married?"

Hermione laughed shakily in response as she pulled herself into a sitting position. "I think that ship has sailed, Ron," she stated, indicating her stomach.

"Right." His ears reddened. "I just meant from here on out."

"So…when you said 'right here, right now' about getting married, what did you mean exactly?"

"Oh, you know, I didn't literally mean  _now_ —we should at least wait until after dessert and Fleur's had time to clean the kitchen—"

She giggled as she launched a pillow at his head, which he caught reflexively.

"Hey, now," he chortled. "Really, Hermione, there's no need to get violent. Seriously, though," he added, his tone turning somber, "let's do it tomorrow. Our preparations for the break-in are about done, and so there's no need to wait. The sooner, the better."

"Ron…," she said slowly, something significant occurring to her. "Even if we exchange vows in front of our friends and family, it won't be in an official capacity, with the Wizarding government being run by Death Eaters. Even if we weren't outlaws—which we are—I'm assuming the new regime will only recognize marriages between purebloods…"

"If all we can do is exchange vows for now, then that's good enough for me," he said sincerely, his eyes piercing hers. "I don't need a piece of parchment to tell me that you're my wife, Hermione."

She nodded, sobered by his intensity. "All right, Ron. Tomorrow, then. Let's go and tell the others."

Moments later, they descended the stairs together hand in hand. Hermione's heart was thudding in her chest as they found Bill, Fleur, Dean, Luna, and Harry in the sitting room, talking quietly. There was a fire glowing warmly in the hearth, and Luna, Dean, and Bill were all eating dessert.

The absence of Mr. Ollivander was notable because he'd only left that very evening for Ron's Aunt Muriel's. Griphook's absence wasn't quite as notable, however, as he never chose to socialize with the others. Harry, Ron, and Hermione only saw him during the hours that they planned the break-in, and, of course, during mealtimes since Fleur had put her foot down and refused to serve him meals in his bed any longer.

Outside, the wind had died down, and the rushing sound of the sea served to help calm Hermione's nerves. She felt her face warm considerably as five pairs of eyes looked up at her and Ron.

"Ron and I would like to make an announcement," Hermione started, clearing her throat at the tremor in her voice. She was clutching Ron's hand like life depended on it. "We wish…to get married here—tomorrow."

She was met with stunned silence, similar to her own reaction when Ron had first proposed.

"Now, we realize," she rushed on, "that our marriage won't be recognized officially under Wizarding law, but we would like to exchange vows nonetheless…pledge ourselves to each other...in front of you, our friends and family, as witnesses."

"Can I speak to you two privately?" Bill was the first to find his voice.

Hermione braced herself for whatever he was going to say, preparing her responses, as she and Ron followed him into the kitchen. To Ron's credit, he was unwavering as he locked his eyes on his elder brother with a firm resolve. He wouldn't back down, no matter what Bill said to him, and Hermione's heart swelled with pride and love at his courage.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to try to talk you out of it," he said as soon as the door was shut. Apparently it was obvious that they were bracing themselves for a battle. "I just want to make sure that you've thought this through—that it's not about the pregnancy."

"We've discussed it, and it's not," Ron replied immediately, squeezing Hermione's hand.

Bill looked like he wanted to say something more, but then he shook his head, letting out a chortle of acceptance. "Consider yourself one damned lucky bloke, Ron," he finally said, "because you've got yourself a good woman."

Hermione smiled as she bit her lower lip. She hadn't expected it to be that easy—not that it was any of Bill's concern, really. She and Ron were both of the age of consent, after all, and it was ultimately their decision, whether he approved or not.

"Mum's going to kill me," Bill said, shaking his head again, "but the Marital Vow is binding and permanent, even if the marriage isn't legally recognized by law. I can perform it, but I need to make sure that you both know what the hell you're getting into."

"We do," Ron and Hermione said as one.

"Mum is going to kill me," Bill repeated. "In fact, she'll probably kill all of us. Were you planning on inviting her?"

"We'll have another ceremony later…assuming we survive," Ron replied seriously. "Mum can go all out then, like she did for you and Fleur. But right now she'll just be a complication that we don't need. The fewer people who know about this… _any_  of this, the better."

"Bloody hell, Mum is  _really_ going to kill me. Okay. Okay, tomorrow, then. And you should know that the marriage will only become permanent once it's been consummated, which must happen within two days of the ceremony."

Hermione nodded in understanding while Ron looked slightly confused. "Wha…?" She nudged him with her elbow, clearing her throat meaningfully. "Oh…" His ears turned a deep shade of scarlet while Hermione laughed.

"All right, then," Bill stated, looking amused. "I know my wife is just dying to express her joy over your upcoming nuptials, and who am I to deny her?"

The door swung open with a flick of Bill's wand, and Fleur practically fell over the threshold. She threw her arms around Ron first, and then Hermione. "First, a baby ees born, and, now, a wedding!" she shrieked. "'Ermione, we shall be sisters! Both married to Weasley men!" Fleur planted kisses enthusiastically to both of her cheeks.

Dean and Luna joined in on expressing their congratulations, but there was only one person that Hermione sought: Harry stood just behind the others, a funny smile on his face, as if he was both surprised and yet not-so-surprised by this turn of events.

She moved around Dean, reaching Harry at the same moment as Ron: "Harry, you'll give me away?" Hermione said at the same instant that Ron said, "Harry, you'll be my best man?"


	18. A Bonding

_This segment is set within DH, Chapter Twenty-Five: Shell Cottage._

oOo

She took a deep, calming breath as she studied herself in the full length mirror behind Fleur's bedroom door. She was wearing a pretty, white-cotton, empire-waist dress that Fleur had loaned her. It was simple but quite lovely with embroidered detail.

Her hair had been painstakingly smoothed and curled into elegant ringlets, the top part pinned up and threaded with tiny white flowers, while the back was loose about her shoulders. Her make-up was simple, just a touch of color on her lips, eyes, and cheeks. "You 'ave a natural glow," Fleur had said as she'd applied the subtle color to Hermione's cheeks, "and your complexion is quite lovely. Zere. Ron will be speechless."

She turned sideways, studying the way the cut of the dress emphasized the curve of her abdomen. She had spent the past several months in baggy sweatpants and oversized t-shirts, and, as such, it was a bit of a shock to see herself actually  _looking_ pregnant while fully clothed.

Yes, she imagined that Ron would be quite speechless, indeed. Although, she had to concede that the overall effect was quite pleasant. Hermione didn't bother with hair and make-up on a daily basis—even before going on the run with Harry and Ron—so it was always nice on those rare occasions to dress up and feel feminine and attractive.

Especially on a day like today.

Hermione still couldn't believe that she was actually getting married—and at eighteen years old. She was simultaneously floored and exhilarated by the idea; it was funny how circumstances had a way of sorting out one's priorities, since there was, after all, no guarantee that there would even  _be_  a tomorrow.

She frowned suddenly, a thought occurring to her: She and Ron hadn't even discussed whether she would be taking his name or not, although he had probably made the assumption that she would. It wasn't that she held any particularly strong objections to the tradition of taking on the man's surname, but the idea of being anyone other than Hermione Granger was exceedingly odd to her.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she said out loud, "Hermione Weasley. Mrs. Hermione Jean Weasley." The thought of being "Mrs. Weasley" was incredibly strange, and it made her think of Ron's mother. But it was, as Ron had said about not having rings, merely a detail. The important thing was that they would be bonded for life—however long that might be.

There was a flutter of movement from her tummy, and Hermione brought her hand up, absently cradling the tiny life there. "You're nervous, too, are you?" she murmured, thinking that pregnant, eighteen, and without her mother and father wasn't exactly how she'd pictured her wedding day.

With a surge of longing, her thoughts drifted to her parents, who were ignorant to the fact that they had a daughter and, soon, a granddaughter. It should have been her mother helping her dress, and her father giving her away…

She was just happy that Harry was here. He'd readily agreed to serve the dual function of giving Hermione away and being Ron's best man. Even though Harry was happy for them, Hermione knew that this whole thing was slightly odd to him—the idea that his two best friends were getting married—and made him feel strangely lonely. Though he never said so, Hermione knew that Harry's thoughts were with Ginny and of an uncertain future—

A gentle knock at the door startled Hermione out of her thoughts. "Hermione?" Harry called. "Can I come in?"

"Sure, Harry."

He slipped inside the room, shutting the door quickly behind him. Though she had insisted that everyone attend the ceremony in casual attire, he was wearing a set of dress robes, undoubtedly borrowed from Bill.

"I couldn't give you away wearing jeans," Harry explained at her raised eyebrows as his gaze landed on her stomach. "Wow, Hermione, you look…"

"Pregnant?"

"Well, I was going to say 'brilliant,'" Harry retorted with a laugh, "but yes, that, too. How do you feel?"

"Good," she said, laughing nervously. "Ready to get this over with, actually. How…how's Ron?"

"Well, he's only vomited once, so I think he's doing well, considering."

"Oh."

"I'm only joking, Hermione—really, he's never been better. I've never seen him this happy or self-assured. It's sort of nauseating, really. Had to get away from him for a few minutes."

Hermione laughed. "Thank you, Harry, for everything," she said after a moment. "I know that…this whole thing is a bit strange for you—believe me, it's strange for me as well—but I'm glad you're here. It means a lot to us both."

Harry smiled softly before stepping toward her and pulling her into his arms. He hugged her cautiously, being careful not to ruffle her dress or ruin her hair. "It's an honor, Hermione," he said sincerely, pressing his lips briefly to her forehead. "Really. You and Ron are my best friends, and I completely understand why you want to do this—and you have my support."

"Love you, Harry," she whispered fondly, squeezing him briefly before disengaging from his arms, "and I want you to know that when we kill You-Know-Who, I'll be happy to give you away at  _your_  wedding."

Harry laughed. "Thank you, Hermione. I'll keep that in mind."

"Hermione?"

It was Luna's voice, floating through the closed door.

"Come in, Luna."

"Fleur asked me to tell you that they're ready," she said as she poked her head inside the room. "You look lovely," she added. "As do you, Harry."

"Er, thanks, Luna," Harry replied, his tone amused.

When Luna had vanished from sight once more, Hermione took another deep breath, composing herself.  _Well, this is it,_  she told herself as she took Harry's arm, allowing him to lead her down the stairs and out into the garden. It was a sunny day in early April, and thankfully the wind from the evening before had died down. In fact, in a stroke of luck, it had turned out to be a perfect day for an outdoor wedding, but Hermione hardly noticed the blue skies or the sting of the salt in the air or the rush of the ocean waves against the cliff face.

When they reached the place where the others were gathered on an outcrop of rock overlooking the sparkling ocean, Hermione barely registered the others—Dean, Fleur, Bill, and Luna—or the beautiful rose-covered archway that had been erected for the occasion.

Dimly, she noted that there couldn't be a more beautiful place to have a wedding, but she could only truly focus on the entranced, awed expression on Ron's face as she approached him where he stood beneath the archway. He and Bill were both wearing dress robes, and Hermione wondered wildly how many sets Bill owned; Ron's eyes were the brightest shade of blue she'd ever seen them, almost the exact shade of the sky behind him, and she blushed beneath the intensity of the adoration in his expression.

It was all quite surreal, actually, and Hermione wondered briefly if this was merely a very real, very vivid dream she was having. Was she actually standing here, on this cliff face overlooking the ocean at midday, about to pledge herself to Ron Weasley?

Bill, standing before them, began to speak, but she was having difficulty making sense of the syllables that undoubtedly formed words. Harry took her hand in response to something Bill had said and placed it into Ron's, before moving to stand on Ron's other side.

Ron squeezed her hand, and the gentle pressure grounded her, pulling her back to reality. She was actually doing this.  _Ron and I are getting married._

"Let's get down to it, shall we?" Bill was saying, a smile tugging at his lips. "Do you, Ronald Bilius, take Hermione Jean…?"

His voice droned on, citing the words of the Marital Vow, and when he paused, looking at his brother expectantly, Ron cleared his throat: "I do," he said in a thick voice, his gaze never once wavering from Hermione's, and, indeed, as Harry had said, he was more self-assured than she had ever seen him.

There was a sniffle from either Luna or Fleur, but her eyes were captivated by Ron as Bill turned to her: "And do you, Hermione Jean, take Ronald Bilius…?"

"I do," she vowed just as solidly as Ron had, smiling softly as she spoke, communicating in those two simple words her unswerving devotion and love. Despite everything—their young age, the glaring absence of their parents, and with the very real possibility of their deaths looming on the horizon—Hermione knew that she would do this all over again. She loved him; it was as simple as that.

"In that case, I declare you bonded for life." Just like that, as Bill waved his wand over their heads, sending a cascade of silver stars spiraling down over their heads, the ceremony—which Bill had proclaimed the "condensed version"—was over. It had lasted mere minutes, and yet its consequences were permanent, everlasting. At least, they  _would_ be after tonight, Hermione reminded herself.

Ron leaned in then, oblivious to the whooping and cheering from their small but enthusiastic audience, and Hermione met his lips halfway, her hands snaking up around his neck, pulling him close. She felt giddy in that moment, proud to call herself Mrs. Ron Weasley. It felt undeniably right, the idea that they would go into battle joined together as one, as they rightly should.

When Ron and Hermione reluctantly pulled apart, Fleur threw her arms around Hermione while Dean pumped Ron's hand enthusiastically; Luna had tears in her eyes, and Harry had that strange smile on his face as he embraced them as one. The corners of Bill's lips were tugged up in a half-grin, and Hermione thought she heard him say to himself, "Yep, Mum's gonna kill us all."

In the next few moments, Fleur was ushering them all back inside for champagne and a special wedding supper. Hermione had insisted that she not go to a fuss over them, but of course Fleur hadn't listened.

They sat down to a several-coursed feast, and several bottles of champagne were opened. The atmosphere was even more festive than it had been yesterday when Remus had arrived with the news of his newborn son, and yet all Hermione wanted was to escape everyone, to be alone with Ron.

Griphook came down for the meal, but he didn't comment on the festivities, eating in silence before returning upstairs when Bill decided to turn on the radio in the living room. Fleur magicked the couch and chairs toward the walls, making room, and Hermione took a turn on the makeshift "dance floor" with all of the men.

Ron danced with her clumsily, but it didn't matter that he wasn't much of a dancer; it was just nice to have him holding her. He retained that gobsmacked expression on his face that he'd worn during the ceremony, like he still couldn't quite believe his luck.

The afternoon wore on, and Hermione couldn't help but laugh as she watched the expression on Dean's face when he asked Luna to dance, and, after accepting the invitation, she promptly began revolving on spot, her hands in the air.

Eyebrows raised, Dean looked to Hermione for help, who shrugged, indicating that he should join her.

Next to her, Ron and Harry chortled. "Do you reckon it's love?" Ron asked.

"Definitely," Harry replied. "I imagine we'll be celebrating  _their_  wedding next."

Ron snorted at that.

"You two be nice," Hermione whispered, swatting at Ron, but there was no real heat behind it. "Any man would be lucky to have a girl as sweet as Luna."

"Well," Fleur said suddenly, and the music was halted abruptly with a flick of her wand, "I suppose ze newlyweds must be exhausted," she declared, and Hermione nearly leapt for joy, she was so ready for some peace and quiet—not to mention, an opportunity to make the bonding permanent.

Ron certainly didn't object, and after bidding everyone goodnight—and after another chorus of "congratulations" from the assembled and a "Don't forget about Muffliato!" from Harry (which consequently had Ron's ears turning a deep crimson)—the couple was ushered up the stairs and into the small room that Hermione usually shared with Luna.

Its twin beds had been replaced, or Transfigured, more likely, into a single large bed. "Eet eesn't much," Fleur commented with a wink, "but eet should do nicely." And then she scurried from the room, shutting them inside together.

Ron and Hermione were left facing each other awkwardly. As eager as she'd been for some time alone with Ron, it was rather mortifying to know that everyone in the house was expecting them to have sex now.

"Talk about pressure," Ron piped up, apparently thinking the same thing that she was as he crossed the room, picking up a champagne glass from the bureau to occupy his hands. The room was lit by candles; they were scattered over the furniture and hovering in the air. The duvet covering the bed was red velvet. "Listen, we don't have to…" Ron gulped hard, nervously, turning back to face her. "I know everyone's expecting us to…but I understand…if you don't..." His voice trailed off apprehensively.

It was odd, wasn't it? Yesterday it had been so natural when they'd nearly made love, but now, when everyone expected them to and it wasn't spontaneous, it didn't come quite as easily. It had been months, after all, and they'd only actually been intimate a handful of times. It was almost like being a virgin all over again.

Hermione smiled as she walked toward him, trying to put herself at ease as much as she was him. "That's very sweet, Ron, but you heard what Bill said. The bond won't become permanent until we've consummated it."

She turned around when she reached him, silently indicating that he should unzip her dress.

He complied nervously, his hands shaking as he placed them gently on her shoulders, caressing her before slowly tugging the zipper down. "Yeah, but we have forty-eight hours." His voice was a breathy whisper, and it was apparent that he wanted to, despite any awkwardness he might feel at knowing that the others knew what they were doing.

She turned around slowly, allowing her dress to puddle at her feet. "I don't want to wait," Hermione whispered, her own breathing unsteady. "I want to be bonded with you, Ron—in every way humanly and magically possible. Right here. Right now."


	19. A Consummation

_This segment is set within DH, Chapter Twenty-Five: Shell Cottage and continues on through Chapter Twenty-Six: Gringotts_

oOo

Ron stepped toward her, and his body was abruptly flush against hers. Her pulse fluttered at his nearness in this candlelit room, her body flooding with warmth. She could feel his body heat through his robes, scorching her even through the stiff material, and she wanted nothing more than to feel his bare skin against hers.

"Ron," she whispered just before he leaned down, capturing her lips as her hands slid up his shoulders, pushing at the cumbersome fabric. Why were Wizarding robes made with so much damn material, anyway? Really, they were quite impractical when one thought about it…

"'Ermione," Ron said with a small laugh, his lips breaking away from hers when she ripped the fabric slightly in her impatience. "I'm pretty sure Bill's expecting these back in one piece."

He took a small step back, stripping down to his underwear, and Hermione was on him before he'd straightened completely. She was kissing him deeply, passionately, her tongue exploring his mouth more aggressively than she ever had before; one of her legs was hiked high around his hips—which actually wasn't very high at all, as he was quite a bit taller than she was.

Ron returned her passion ardently, his lips and tongue dancing with hers, his arms coming around her body to grip her backside before lifting her bodily. When he settled her on his arousal through the thin barrier of their underwear, Hermione gasped at the contact, her legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. Her core swelled for him immediately, her knickers becoming saturated with her need as he carried her to the bed. He then lowered her gently, mindful of the swell of her belly as he settled in the cradle of her hips, peeling her bra from her breasts.

Ron groaned as he dipped his head down, taking her sensitive peaks between his lips, suckling, licking, driving her utterly mad.  _"Ron,"_ Hermione gasped, her hands threading in his hair encouragingly as she thrust her hips upward, eager for some relief. She was already so perilously close to orgasm, and she wanted him inside her; it was a feral need that she couldn't explain, but she couldn't deny the persistence of the urge either. "I—I don't think I can wait any longer. Please, Ron…I—I want it now."

His lips broke suction of her nipple with an audible  _pop_ , and he met her eyes questioningly. "Don't you wanna…you know…take this slowly?" The expression on his face was at odds with his words; it was clear that he was just as eager for the finale as she was.

"We'll…take it slow later."  _Just get inside me now, please,_ she silently added.

Apparently not inclined to further argument, Ron raised up slightly, groping blindly for something on the far side of the bed, and Hermione didn't realize it was his wand until he was aiming it at the door, casting Muffliato. He then threw it aside hastily and pushed his underwear down his hips, kicking them off and allowing his rather impressive arousal to spring free.

By the light of the hovering candles, Hermione glimpsed a trickle of clear fluid from his thick tip, an undeniable indication of his own eagerness. She had an abrupt, inexplicable urge to know what he tasted like, and she might have given in to that yearning had it not been for the more pressing need to have him inside of her as quickly as possible.

Ron yanked her knickers down her hips in the next instant, pulling them from her ankles and tossing them aside. He then parted her trembling thighs with one wide hand and positioned his hips between her open legs. "Bloody hell, Hermione," he groaned throatily as he swiped her intimate flesh with his hand, eliciting a moan and a shudder from Hermione, "you're so… _ready_ …" His voice was laced with a mixture of raw lust and awe.

Hermione felt the thick head of his length nudging her greedy sex then, his dampness mixing with her own, and she groaned in anticipation. "Ron, _please…_ " she whimpered desperately.

Unhesitatingly, he hiked her right knee up high, parting her widely, and then he slid in smoothly to the hilt, grunting in his pleasure. Ron's body shuddered above her, and, unexpectedly, blindingly, a powerful climax wracked Hermione's body upon penetration. She cried out at the acute intensity of it, her fingernails digging into Ron's forearms—which were braced on either side of her head—as her body arched of its own accord, her hips thrusting upward urgently, her uterus contracting spastically...

"Oh, God,  _Ro-on_ , oh, ye _-essss_ …" Her words were a nonsensical rush on her tongue, and Ron was now moving inside of her, thrusting carefully as if afraid of breaking her, pushing her peak to the very threshold of its dizzying limits…

"Bloody hell," Ron breathed, his voice strained, utterly enraptured, when her orgasm had finally abated and her head had fallen back against the pillows. He'd gone still inside her; his body trembled at the concentrated effort it must have taken to tame the urge to continue his rapid plunges.

"Oh, my God," Hermione breathed shakily in response, bringing up one hand to lazily stroke his clean-shaven jaw. He turned his face in response, kissing her palm. "That was…" She let out a shuddery breath, for once in her life at a complete loss for words.

"If I've managed to render Hermione Granger speechless," Ron stated, the lopsided grin on his face smug and self-satisfied, "then I'll take that as a compliment. By the way, did I ever tell you that you're bloody sexy when you come?"

Her face burned hotly at his words, but she felt flattered by the compliment nonetheless.

"Just thought you should know," he whispered, bending down to capture her lips as he slowly began surging into her body once more. "Think we can go for two?"

Conversation was lost as they made love, surging and moving together. Ron's plunges were gentle, and he was careful to avoid putting his weight on her belly, but Hermione longed for him to be just a bit harder, just a bit rougher…

"Ron," she whispered, threading her fingers in his hair, pulling his lips down to hers, and they crashed together, their lips dueling as his hips sped up in response to her unspoken request. She knew from the now-erratic nature of his thrusts that he was perilously close to his own release.

Suddenly, Ron rolled over, pulling her on top of him, and she was now straddling him. From this position, she felt like her body was crammed full of him, and she reveled in the sensation as she began to ride him, her hands clamping onto the headboard for leverage.

His hands came up then, and he squeezed her nipples almost roughly between his thumbs and forefingers as he groaned, the sensation sending her spiraling abruptly and rapidly into another climax. Her hips bucked against him brutally as a ragged moan escaped her lips, and her inner walls contracted rapidly around him, squeezing him…

Ron's hands slid down over her hips, gripping them, and he moved her desperately over himself. Her breasts bounced with the frenzied motion, but she paid it no mind as Ron let off a rather loud, strangled grunt, his body stiffening abruptly as his hips thrust urgently and erratically upward. His eyes rolled back in his head, Hermione's name was a broken, ragged groan on his lips, and he was pulsing deeply inside her body.

"That's right, Ron," she breathed encouragingly, having recovered from her own release as she leaned over him and kissed his lips sweetly while he continued to shudder and pulse. "Give it all to me, sweetheart."

At long last, he was still beneath her, and as he pulled her down into his arms, there was a sudden, warm glow enveloping her body. Feeling perplexed, Hermione looked up to see that the glow was emanating from their still-joined bodies, a bright, pulsing light, and she realized that she truly felt joined with Ron—in every manner possible. They were now bonded irrevocably.

In the next instance, the glow had evaporated, but that feeling of being joined with Ron remained, and she knew that it would remain eternally.

"Love you, wife," Ron whispered then, undeniable adoration and pride in his voice, and his arm tightened around her, pressing her more fully against his chest.

"I love you, Ron…my husband," she replied with a laugh, feeling almost shy as she kissed him again.  _Husband._ The idea that Ron was her husband was strange, but undeniably good—more than good, in fact. It was right. Perfect.

Hermione tried to hang on to consciousness in the moments that followed, but she felt suddenly exhausted with the combined force of her physical satiation and her contentment in Ron's arms. Fighting her drooping eyelids was a futile battle that she inevitably lost.

oOo

When she came to once more, Hermione became aware of several things all at once: Her mouth was dry, her stomach was rumbling, her bladder was uncomfortably full, and Ron was speaking softly, the warmth of his large hand splayed across her belly.

"Hey," Ron murmured softly when she stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She knew by the muted light from beneath the closed curtains that it was still nighttime; she could hear the soft swish of the ocean on the rocks, a sound that she was coming to love. Maybe, if they lived through this, she and Ron could get their own place near the sea.

She entertained a brief fantasy about a little girl in a white dress, her bare feet slapping on the wet sand as she laughed, her red hair trailing behind her in fiery ringlets; Ron—older, more matured—caught the laughing little girl, sweeping her up into his arms…

But it was just that, wasn't it?—a fantasy. Hermione knew that there might not be any hope. For any of them.

"She's been moving the whole time you were asleep," Ron said gently, interrupting her brooding thoughts. "Maybe it's my wishful thinking," he added with a small laugh, "but I—I think she responds to my voice."

"It's not your imagination," she responded in a whisper, sitting up slightly and covering Ron's hand with her own, circling his skin with her thumb. She became aware then that she was still naked, but that she'd been cleaned up; there wasn't any dampness on her thighs or on the sheets beneath her, just a slight soreness between her legs. "She knows your voice."

In the dim lighting that remained—most of the candles had been put out—she saw his lips curve up in a smile at that. "Hermione…," he said slowly, hesitantly, "I couldn't stand it if anything happened to you…"

 _Ah, yes._ She'd had a strong feeling that the matter of her participation in the upcoming Gringotts break-in wasn't truly settled, which they'd scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Their preparations were done, and there was no reason to put it off any longer.

"Believe me, I understand everything you said about why you want to come along," Ron continued hurriedly, "but…after Malfoy Manor…" He paused, shaking his head, and the crushing reality of how horrifying it must have been for him, hearing her screams and being helpless to interfere, occurred to Hermione for the first time. She had been so wrapped up in the aftermath of the way in which Ron had learned about her pregnancy that it had driven all else from her mind. "If you got hurt like that…again…or worse…"

"I won't," she said firmly, pulling herself into a full sitting position against the headboard, facing Ron. "I won't," she repeated.

"But how can you know that? What if—?"

She reached out, cupping Ron's face in her palms, forcing him to meet her unwavering gaze. "I won't. You and Harry will be with me. Our plan is solid—considerably more solid than our Ministry infiltration, which we managed on sheer luck. We  _can_ do this, Ron, and you and Harry will be there to protect me should the need arise."

She hoped that she conveyed more confidence than she actually felt; the last thing she needed was Ron going in there without his head in the game, so the more confidence she exuded, the more beneficial it would be.

It looked like he wanted to say something further, but apparently he thought better of it, because he smiled slightly, nodding. "All right, Hermione."

"Good."

"By the way," he added softly, "I think you're beautiful like this." He gently stroked her rounded belly as he spoke. "I mean, I always think you're beautiful, but now…" He swallowed hard. "You're having my kid, aren't you? There's nothing more beautiful than that."

Tears rose in her eyes, and she kissed him briefly in response, and they held each other for several moments.

"I have to go to the loo," she said suddenly, gently disentangling herself from his arms. She stood and pulled on one of his shirts, which was draped over a nearby chair. "I'll be right back."

Since the small room didn't have its own bathroom, Hermione was required to step out onto the landing and hope that the single bathroom shared by all the bedrooms, save the master one, wasn't occupied. She had no idea what time it was, but there weren't any lights or voices from downstairs.

Luck evidently on her side, she slipped inside the unoccupied loo, relieving herself before quickly brushing her teeth and washing her face. Feeling parched, she cupped her hands beneath the faucet rather than going downstairs for a glass, drinking deeply straight from her hands.

Upon stepping back out onto the landing, Hermione nearly barreled straight into Luna, who had just come up the stairs. "Oh! Hello, Hermione."

"Hi, Luna." She felt herself blushing slightly. She had really hoped to avoid running into anyone, since her appearance screamed  _I've been having sex._ The fact that she and Ron were now married somehow didn't make it any less embarrassing.

"I trust it went well," Luna said, and Hermione flushed even warmer. "The first time a man and woman come together after their bonding is a very important time," she continued wisely, completely oblivious to Hermione's mortification. "Can I ask you something?" she added abruptly.

"Er…sure," Hermione replied, feeling slightly fearful about what Luna was going to say.

"What's it like?"

"What—it—?" she sputtered. Was Luna asking her what she thought she was asking her?

"Sex. What's it like? You see, naturally, I've always been curious about it, but I've never known anyone before that I felt comfortable asking."

"Oh. Well. Um…it's…not a decision to make lightly. Every choice has its consequences, obviously." Hermione indicated her own stomach.

"Yes, but what's it actually like?" Luna persisted. "Is it painful?"

"Oh—yes—well, there's a bit of discomfort the first several times, just from my personal experience—"

"I imagine that depends on the size of the man," Luna said knowledgeably, as if they were discussing the weather, and Hermione's face burned impossibly hotter. "It makes sense, doesn't it? And afterward, I imagine it gets better, or else women wouldn't choose to do it again—"

"Luna," Hermione interrupted, "what's this about? Are you thinking about…being intimate…with someone?"

Despite Luna's matter-of-fact attitude, her pale cheeks turned a very slight pink. "Well, I  _have_  been considering it. I've been spending a lot of time with Dean, you see, and he makes me feel…a certain way. So, naturally, I've been wondering…"

"I see," Hermione said slowly. "And does he…seem to share these feelings?"

"I think so…" She paused, looking thoughtful. "Although, he also seems embarrassed by the idea that he's attracted to me. It's quite understandable, really. I'm not pretty like Ginny; I'm not popular like her, either." She didn't seem jealous or insecure, simply factual.

"You're plenty pretty, Luna," Hermione said sincerely, "and popularity is neither here nor there. If Dean is worthy of you, he'll appreciate you for the person that you are. I understand having a sexual curiosity, but I wouldn't recommend having sex for the sake of merely satisfying a curiosity. You should make sure that you're emotionally ready first."

"Were you?" Luna asked her curiously. "Were you and Ron emotionally ready?"

Hermione took a deep breath: And there it was. "I'm not sure," she answered honestly. "We thought we were, but hormones and warring emotions sometimes get in the way of rationality." She laughed then. "Not that it matters anymore. The important thing is what happens from here on out."

Luna smiled at her. "I wish you, Ron, and Harry the best of luck," she said sincerely. "I know you'll succeed. I know you'll defeat You-Know-Who." And then she stepped forward, hugging Hermione briefly, who returned the embrace.

 _I hope you're right_ , Hermione replied silently.  _I really do._

"I shall miss you three when you leave," Luna added, and then she ducked into the bathroom before Hermione had a chance to respond.

When Hermione pushed open the door to the room she was sharing with Ron, it was to find him lying where she'd left him beneath the duvet; he had his Deluminator out and was sucking the candlelight from the room. Upon her reentry, however, he clicked it one more time, sending the flames back to their wicks. "I was a bit worried you'd fallen in," Ron teased. "Thought I was gonna have to send in a search and rescue party."

"I ran into Luna on the landing, and we had an interesting discussion," she said as she crossed the room, sitting down on the bed.

"I expect she told you that you should take a garden gnome into your marital bed for luck."

"Not exactly," she replied with a grin. "She's thinking about having sex with Dean."

Ron frowned at that, and Hermione knew why: Despite his teasing, he thought of Luna as a sister of sorts. "Never really thought of Luna…y'know…as…"

"A sexual being?" Hermione asked with a raised eyebrow. "Honestly, Ron, human beings are innately sexual, why should Luna be any different?"

"Did I ever tell you that it turns me on when you talk like that?" Ron asked suggestively. "Say 'innately sexual' one more time, would you?"

"Innately sexual." She couldn't say it again with a straight face.

"Oh, yeah, that's what I'm talking about," Ron said with a growl.

"That turned you on, did it?"

"Why don't you come over here and find out?"

Hermione's body flushed at the raw desire in his voice, and before she could respond, he took her hand and drew it beneath the duvet. Her breathing hitched in lust when she felt how hot and hard and ready he was. She licked her lips, moving closer to him as she wrapped her palm around his arousal, pumping him aggressively.

He leaned in then, kissing her deeply, groaning against her mouth as she continued to work him. She wanted to try something, but she wasn't quite sure how to make her desires known. "Ron," she said, breaking away from his lips, "lie back. I want to…let me…" Her face flushed.

Ron looked slightly confused, but he did as she asked, lying down on the bed. Positioning a pillow so that she was comfortable, she leaned over and took him into her mouth without hesitation. He seemed simultaneously shocked and pleased, his hands threading into her hair as he very obviously restrained himself from thrusting into her mouth.

Despite Hermione's inexperience, she'd studied human anatomy rather extensively, and male plumbing was relatively simple—at least in comparison to the female variety—so it was only minutes before he was shuddering violently, gasping as he pulsed into her mouth. She took all that he offered, swallowing instinctively, and only when he went completely still did she pull away from him, discreetly cleaning up any leftover mess with his wand as he continued to breathe heavily, clearly still recovering.

"Blimey," he whispered, at last finding his voice, and the expression on his face was possibly the most beautiful thing that she'd ever seen. "You didn't have to do that, Hermione," he said, clearing his throat. "Not that I'm complaining… That was bloody amazing."

"I wanted to, Ron," she said with a shy laugh, flushing, as Ron pulled her down into his arms, kissing her deeply.

"Well, in that case, feel free to do it to your heart's content…"

Over the course of the next half a day, Ron and Hermione made love several more times, emerging only for food and to wash. Around midday that day, Harry knocked on the door to remind them that it was time to start preparations for their next-day departure…

oOo

"She tasted  _disgusting_ , worse than Gurdyroots!" Hermione complained when she strode across the lawn toward Harry and Ron in the early morning, disguised as Bellatrix Lestrange. She saw Ron recoil slightly at her appearance, and she couldn't say she blamed him. "Okay, Ron, come here so I can do you…"

"Right," he said, stepping toward her, "but remember, I don't like the beard too long—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, this isn't about looking handsome—"

"It's not that, it gets in the way! But I liked my nose a bit shorter, try and do it the way you did last time." Hermione set to work with a sigh, trying to get it the way she'd practiced the night before. She had to admit to herself, despite what she'd told Ron, she wasn't entirely happy with this plan—especially the part about double-crossing Griphook.

"There," Hermione said once she'd transformed various aspects of his appearance, "how does he look, Harry?"

"Well, he's not my type, but he'll do. Shall we go, then?"

Hermione took a last glimpse back toward Shell Cottage, and at the cliff, not far from here, where she and Ron had gotten married.

She sighed as they set off toward the boundaries of the Fidelius Charm. She was going to miss this place. She just hoped and prayed that she would survive to see it again someday.


	20. A Choice

_This segment is set within DH, Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Final Hiding Place._

oOo

Hermione just barely managed to drag herself to the muddy embankment, coughing and sputtering. She was aware of Ron's arms coming around her, and he was dragging her onto slippery grass. She was weak, exhausted, hungry, sore, cold, and thirsty—but she was  _alive_ ; the fact that she was experiencing those very real sensations was proof undeniable.

Somehow, and against all probability, they hadn't been thrown from that dragon's back. It seemed insane— _almost_  as insane as the idea that they had actually managed to break into the vault, find the Horcrux, and escape against all conceivable odds on the back of said dragon.

She had been wrong in what she'd told Ron about their plan being solid, so very wrong indeed. In retrospect, all their careful planning with Griphook seemed as childish as their Ministry infiltration had been. What had she been thinking, going in there using  _Bellatrix's stolen wand_? Of course the Death Eaters knew who'd stolen it; of course they would have warned Gringotts to be on alert for an imposter.

Hermione couldn't believe that she had made such an obvious, grave error, that she could be so incredibly daft.

And yet, despite their foolhardy plan, they had once again managed to succeed on total luck. At this point she had to believe that someone, somewhere was watching over them, because there was no logical explanation for how they could continually be so fortunate as to keep surviving—much less actually  _succeeding_ —in impossibly dire circumstances. The odds were…well, Hermione had no idea what the exact numbers were, but she was guessing they most decidedly were  _not_  in their favor…

"Hermione—," Ron, his wet hair plastered to his face, angry red burns on his face and arms, was gripping her shoulders as he stared down at her urgently, "—are you all right?"

She nodded, trying to catch her breath as she did a physical inventory. Her limbs seemed to all be working properly, the child in her stomach was evidently awake and fluttering lightly, and other than being utterly exhausted, sore, hungry, and parched, she felt fine. "I'm okay," she said as Ron helped her into a sitting position.

As Harry set about casting the usual protective enchantments around their little embankment by the lake, Hermione dug the small bottle of essence of dittany out of her bag, wincing where her burned skin scraped against various items.

"Here, Ron," she said, reaching for him, the bottle in hand.

"You first," he replied, prying it from her fingers, and he began dabbing the ointment tenderly on her face. She winced slightly at the contact his fingers made on her burns, but the magical properties in the dittany went to work almost immediately, the wounds sealing themselves practically on contact. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked her as he worked the dittany into a particularly angry burn on her shoulder that had singed straight through her clothing.

She smiled faintly. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit shaken up, but I'll be fine, Ron, I promise. If I hadn't cast Impervius, it would have been much worse; we'd be covered in third-degree burns on more than just our faces and hands."

When he was through, and all her burns were either mended or in the process of mending themselves, she took the bottle from his hands and began applying the dittany to Ron's wounds.

"The journey we just made on that dragon's back was probably the worst part for me," she added, dabbing the ointment to a burn below his right eye. "I was worried about what would happen if it decided to head out into open sea…"

"Or if it decided it fancied doing some acrobatics," Ron added with a weak smile.

"That, too."

Harry, having finished setting up the enchantments, wandered over to them, plopping down in the grass. He looked just as exhausted as Hermione felt. "Are you okay, Hermione?" he asked immediately. "Is your—?"

"I'm fine," she replied as she finished up with Ron's wounds and handed Harry the bottle of dittany. "We're fine—really. Pregnant women are far more resilient than they're given credit for." She was smiling gently in reassurance, and Harry accepted her response, taking the proffered bottle from her hand as she went about digging for clean changes of clothing for all of them and something to drink.

The men turned away respectfully as Hermione walked to the far side of the protective barrier and stripped down to her underwear. She examined herself for any other injuries she might not have noticed, flexing all of her muscles and joints; she had somehow pulled her right calf muscle, there was a large, ugly red-and-purple bruise on her hip, and there were several more minor burns that Ron had missed.

Thankfully, however, there wasn't any blood on her inner thighs, any unusual pain in her abdomen, or else any indication that anything was physically out of order.

After drying her undergarments with Bellatrix's wand, Hermione quickly redressed in her dry change of clothing, and when she rejoined Harry and Ron, they were dried and changed as well, cracking open bottles of pumpkin juice. When she sat down next to Ron, he slipped an arm around her, pressing a bottle into her hands; Hermione drank thirstily, greedily, downing the bottle in several gulps and wishing for a second.

"Well, on the upside," Ron finally said as he watched the skin reforming on the back of his hand, "we got the Horcrux. On the downside—"

"—no sword," Harry interjected through gritted teeth as he slathered the dittany to one of his own burns.

"No sword," confirmed Ron. "That double-crossing little scab…"

Silently, Hermione thought that the loss of the sword served them right for their own planned double-crossing, but she knew that saying it out loud would be counterproductive; it would only irritate Ron and Harry.

"At least we can't wear it this time," Ron observed as Harry withdrew Hufflepuff's cup from the inner pocket of his discarded, still-soaked jacket and sat it in the grass, where it glinted in the setting sun. "That'd look a bit weird hanging around our necks."

Hermione looked out across the lake then, watching the dragon take a lazy drink of water. She couldn't help but wonder what would become of it. How long had it been imprisoned inside Gringotts, anyway? Fifty years? A hundred? She couldn't remember the lifespan of that particular breed of dragon, but it was obvious that it had been there for quite some time… "What'll happen to it, do you think?" she asked the others. "Will it be all right?"

"You sound like Hagrid," Ron replied. "It's a dragon, Hermione, it can look after itself. It's us we need to worry about."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't know how to break this to you, but I think they  _might_  have noticed we broke into Gringotts."

The three of them burst into laughter all at once, the sort of laughter that came when you'd been to hell and back, and it was all you could do or else you might go insane; vaguely, as Hermione began to hiccup and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, she realized that she hadn't laughed this hard in months, not since that day a thousand years ago when Harry had come back from his recon at the Ministry, interrupting her "wrestling match" with Ron.

"What are we going to do, though?" Hermione finally said, attempting to compose herself; Ron and Harry were both sprawled on the ground, looking quite mad—and she imagined she must appear much the same. "He'll know, won't he? You-Know-Who will know we know about his Horcruxes!"

"Maybe they'll be too scared to tell him?" Ron suggested unconvincingly. "Maybe they'll cover up the break-in, pretend—"

Harry let out a strangled cry at that moment, grasping his forehead as he doubled over in evident pain, falling on his face in the soggy grass.

"Harry!" Hermione gasped, falling on her knees in front of him at the same time as Ron. Harry was clutching his head as if in severe agony, writhing, and Hermione felt horrified, remembering sickeningly her own experience under the Cruciatus Curse, but she knew that Harry wasn't being cursed; he was seeing something through Voldemort's eyes. Remembering the incident after Godric's Hollow, when Harry had been literally out of his mind, Hermione had an idea that Voldemort must be furious about something, and she had an idea about what that something might be. All she and Ron could do was wait for the episode to pass before they found out if she was right…

After several minutes, Ron's hand landed on her arm, and she looked up at him: "What d'you reckon he's seeing?"

"Every time this happens to him, it's because You-Know-Who is livid."

"You reckon he knows?" Ron's voice was a whisper.

"I don't know."

At long last, Harry went still on the ground, coming back to himself, and she waited with baited breath for him to speak as his eyes slowly focused on her and Ron. Shivering, he pulled himself into a sitting position.

"He knows," Harry said, his eyes flashing to the Horcrux on the ground before them. "He knows, and he's going to check where the others are, and the last one—," he climbed shakily to his feet with the help of the others, "—is at Hogwarts. I knew it. I  _knew_  it."

"What?" said Hermione, trying to process what he was saying. She had been sure that Voldemort would think that too dangerous… "But what did you see? How do you know?"

"I saw him find out about the cup, I—I was in his head, he's—," Harry looked really pale suddenly, as if remembering something extremely unpleasant, "—he's seriously angry, and scared, too, he can't understand how we knew, and now he's going to check the others are safe, the ring first. He thinks the Hogwarts one is safest, because Snape's there, because it'll be so hard not to be seen getting in, I think he'll check that one last, but he could still be there within hours—"

"Did you see where in Hogwarts it is?" asked Ron, his voice urgent.

"No, he was concentrating on warning Snape, he didn't think about exactly where it is—"

"Wait,  _wait!_ " Hermione protested as Ron grabbed up the Horcrux and Harry pulled out his Invisibility Cloak. "We can't just  _go_ , we haven't got a plan, we need to—"

"We need to get going," Harry said firmly, making no room for argument. "Can you imagine what he's going to do once he realizes the ring and locket are gone? What if he moves the Hogwarts Horcrux, decides it isn't safe enough?"

"But how are we going to get in?"

"We'll go to Hogsmeade and—"

"Hold up a second," Ron interrupted, his hands in the air as he stared at Hermione. "What do you mean 'we'? You can't seriously think—Hermione, you've been through a lot! You haven't eaten, and your body needs to heal. We'll—we'll set up the new tent here, and you can rest, and we'll come back for you, or—or you can go back to Bill and Fleur's!"

"Ron," she said slowly, trying not to get angry with him, "I—am—fine. And I'm not going through this with you again. You told me you wouldn't argue with me anymore about helping find the Horcruxes, that—"

"That was about going to Gringotts! And then I figured we'd be staying at least a few days in the new tent, I didn't bloody think we'd be turning around two minutes later and racing You-Know-Who to Hogwarts! Blimey, Hermione, I don't know if you noticed, but we nearly bloody  _died_  back there—!"

"Ron, you need me," she said firmly. "We've been over this, again and again, you can't possibly think that you're going without—"

"Hermione, Ron," Harry interrupted, unable to keep the impatience out of his voice, "I'm sorry, but I don't have time for this. Ron, I respect that she's your wife and that it's your kid she's carrying, but it's her decision. You can't make her stay if she doesn't want to. I'm leaving for Hogsmeade right now, with or without the two of you, so make up your minds now."

Hermione looked at Ron, willing him to understand, to not be angry with her as she moved to stand next to Harry. After another moment, Ron joined them with a sigh and a shrug of resignation, and Harry threw the cloak over the three of them.

As they turned on the spot and Disapparated, Hermione felt Ron squeezing her hand as if his life depended on it.


	21. A Fear

_This segment begins in DH, Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Lost Diadem, right as Harry is leaving for Ravenclaw Tower with Luna to take a look at the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw, p.585, first edition, printed in the U.S.A._

oOo

"No problem," Harry said to Neville, who'd been explaining that the Room of Requirement's exit came out at a different part of the castle every time. "See you in a bit."

Together, Harry and Luna rushed up the long, torch-lit staircase, and only when they had disappeared through the seemingly solid wall did Ginny, who'd been hovering nearby, move toward Ron and Hermione. Ginny embraced Hermione briefly, exclaiming, "I'm so glad you're safe, I couldn't believe it when I heard about Gringotts!" before turning to her brother and hugging him, and Hermione heard her whisper, "Congratulations!" into his ear. "You'd better treat her right, or else you'll have me to answer to!"

Ginny's eyes flashed back to Hermione as she released her brother, a smile playing on her lips as Ron's ears turned slightly pink. "Bill told me," she explained in a whisper, as there were others still crowding around them. Her eyes flashed to Hermione's stomach then, even though Hermione was aware that her pregnant belly wasn't yet obvious when she was wearing loose clothing.

"Bill's got a big mouth," Ron muttered, but at that moment in time, who knew or  _didn't_  know about her pregnancy or her marriage to Ron was the least of Hermione's concerns. She was trying to figure out how exactly they were going to get rid of the Horcruxes since they no longer had the sword of Gryffindor; she needed to speak to Ron…

Neville rushed forward to hug Ginny in the next instant, and as she fussed over his injuries, and those in their immediate vicinity were distracted, lost in their own conversations, Hermione seized the opportunity, grabbing Ron's arm as she turned to him: "Even if we find the other one, how are we going to get rid of it? We still haven't got rid of the cup!"

Ron mulled over the problem, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Wait up," he said after a moment, "the whole reason that Gryffindor's sword worked on Horcruxes is because it…has basilisk venom in it, right? From when Harry stabbed the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets!"

"Of course!" Hermione shrieked, and then she promptly clamped a hand over her own mouth when several people chattering nearby looked over at her curiously.

"Basilisk venom!" they said in unison in an excited whisper, their heads close together. "Ron, you're a genius!" Hermione added. "An absolute genius! Why didn't I think of that?"

"We'd better get on over to Myrtle's bathroom."

"That's a good id—" She broke off abruptly as an unexpected  _jab_  issued from her stomach, so forceful that it was almost painful.

"What's wrong?" Ron asked urgently as she gasped, her hands flying to her belly.

"Wow!" she exclaimed, reaching out for Ron's hand and pulling it toward her abdomen. "She just gave a  _really_  sharp kick."

"Reckon she'll be a Beater, then?" Ron said with a hopeful grin as he waited to see if the baby would kick again. "Or a Keeper like her ol' dad? Being able to kick certainly comes in handy…"

Hermione was on the verge of retorting when she became aware that Lavender Brown, Parvati, and Padma Patil, who were within earshot and who'd been talking amongst themselves up until moments ago, were all three staring back and forth between her and Ron. As if in slow motion, she watched Lavender's eyes shoot to Hermione's stomach, her eyes going wide as saucers in her face as awareness dawned.

Ron, apparently having realized at the same moment as Hermione that their conversation was no longer private, dropped his hand from her stomach, placing it instead on her arm and turning her away from them.

"Did you hear that?" Lavender hissed at the others in a stage whisper as Ron and Hermione turned their backs on them. "She's pregnant! With  _Ron's_ child!"

"Oh, get off it, Lav," Parvati replied in annoyance at her best friend. "You two only dated a few months, if you can even call it that, like over a  _year_  ago. He's been friends with Hermione forever; I think it's sweet."

"Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"I thought we were all on the  _same_  side," Parvati retorted. "Dumbledore's side— _Harry's_  side."

"Listen," Hermione said to Ron, ignoring the girls behind them, "even if we reach Myrtle's bathroom without a run-in with Snape or the Carrows, how are we going to get inside the Chamber? Neither of us speaks Parseltongue!"

"We'll just have to wing it," said Ron, looking around suddenly, and Hermione didn't know what he was looking for until a broomstick materialized out of nowhere, propped against the nearest wall of the cavernous room.

"Wing it," repeated Hermione doubtfully as Ron picked up the broom, took her hand, and led her toward the stairs.

"Yeah," he said as they climbed the stairs, Ron half-dragging her. "We'll worry about that when we actually get there. Since we don't have a Cloak like Harry, I reckon we should do this express-style, get there as quick as possible."

"Express-style?" Hermione frowned, panting slightly as they reached the seemingly blank expanse of stone wall, thinking vaguely how unfit she'd become from months of doing little more than sitting in a tent.

With a lopsided grin, Ron held up the broomstick in response.

"Are you sure that's wise? Shouldn't we be cautious about this?"

But Ron was already stepping through the wall, pulling her behind him, and they emerged out onto…the upper levels of the Astronomy Tower. Hermione shivered, and not from the draft in the air: It was up here where Dumbledore had met his catastrophic end. "Let's get going," Ron whispered. He was already straddling the broom, one hand outstretched toward her.

She still silently questioned the wisdom of simply zooming down there, but instead of arguing, however, she cast her best Disillusionment Charm over both of them and accepted Ron's hand, straddling the broom as Ron's arms came around her; his feet kicked off of the floor as soon as she was situated.

Hermione hung on tight, her nerves on edge as they whipped down the stairwell as fast as Ron could accelerate the broomstick; she clenched her eyes tightly closed for much of the journey, forcing herself not to gasp or scream when Ron zoomed through the corridors at a breakneck pace, taking several sharp corners without slowing down and just barely avoiding smashing them into the stone walls.

They passed a ghost or two on the trip through the castle, but Ron and Hermione were long gone before they'd had the opportunity to figure out who or what exactly had whipped by them. Thankfully, however, luck appeared to be on their side once more, and they made their excursion through the apparently deserted corridors uninhibited.

This somehow did not help to calm Hermione's nerves. On the contrary, the lack of activity strangely served to increase her anxiety level, and by the time the broom skidded to a halt in front of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, she experienced an odd mixture of relief and disbelief: They'd made it without running into Snape or the Carrows.

She climbed from the broomstick onto rubbery legs, and Ron was there to support her as they practically stumbled into the bathroom. "Whoa, are you okay?" he asked her as she was overcome by a sense of fatigue that washed through her body, leaving her weakened.

She nodded as she leaned against the wall just inside the bathroom, attempting to catch her breath while Ron pulled the door shut behind them. "Just need a moment," she replied, edging toward the row of sinks and turning on the first tap she found, cupping the water in her hands and drinking deeply. The water was liquid ecstasy on her tongue, quenching her thirst and somehow serving to wash away the brunt of her fatigue.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

She nodded once more as she straightened, wiping her mouth on the back of her sleeve. "Let's just get this over with. Which sink is it?" She noted that Myrtle wasn't around, and Hermione felt grateful for that; she really wasn't up to dealing with the over-emotional ghost.

"Right, it's this one here," Ron said, crouching over the sink two down from the one that she was currently leaning against. He stared at it for a moment, a contemplative expression on his face.

"Is this the part where we wing it?" Hermione asked mildly.

He glanced up at her, an amused expression on his face. Then he looked at the sink once more, the humor draining from his eyes, and let out a strange hissing noise that didn't sound too unlike the rare occasions when she'd heard Harry speak Parseltongue.

They waited with baited breath: Nothing happened.

Unperturbed, Ron tried again and, still, nothing. On his third try, and to Hermione's absolute astonishment, the sink sunk back into itself with a vibrating shudder of porcelain-on-stone, revealing a dark, ominous-looking hole, wide enough for a large man to climb into.

"Consider it winged," Ron remarked with a cocky raise of his eyebrows, looking pleased with himself, and Hermione couldn't help but grin at him.

"I can't believe it," she whispered, stunned. "Ron, that was amazing!"

"Always the tone of surprise."

Without another word, he hopped up into the space where the sink had been, broomstick beneath his arm, disappearing inside the dark hole. Hermione followed suit, finding herself sliding down a slimy, winding pipe. She could hear Ron ahead of her, cursing when he took the bends too hard, and on and on they slid, gaining velocity as the pipe became steeper.

At long last, they shot out the end of the tunnel, landing with a wet thud in some sort of dark, dank-smelling chamber, but Hermione couldn't distinguish her surroundings through the darkness. She felt Ron's hands on her, and he was dragging her to her feet. Once both of their wands were lit, she realized they were standing in an ancient stone passageway, surrounded by dense shadows; they couldn't see more than several feet in front of them.

"It's not far," Ron commented, his voice echoing through the passageway as he took her hand, and they set off through the darkness at a hurried pace, their wands lighting the way. "What d'you reckon's happening now?" he asked after a moment, grunting slightly in exertion as he jogged next to her. "You think You-Know-Who is on his way yet?"

Hermione felt a jolt of fear at that thought, and she picked up her pace, ignoring the stitch in her side, thinking that the sooner they got rid of the cup, the sooner Voldemort would have one less tie to immortality. "No idea," she murmured.

Just then something crunched beneath their feet, and Hermione aimed her wand lower, realizing that she was stepping on the bones of small animals, and just ahead of them was a crumbled foundation of rocks. It looked as if the tunnel had partly caved in.

"This is where Lockhart used my broken wand to try and Obliviate me and Harry, and it exploded on him," Ron explained, and she heard the slight grin in his voice.

He helped her climb through a gap in the side of the rubble, and Hermione gasped, startled by what she thought at first must be the dead basilisk, but then she realized that it was merely a large, rotting, dull green snake skin. Hermione knew that at one point it would have been a vivid, emerald shade of green.

"Blimey, that's still here," Ron commented as they walked by it, as if he'd expected it to have vanished over time. "I never got past this part," he added. "I was stuck on the other side of the rubble, but Harry said he had to use Parseltongue at the entrance to the Chamber up ahead. Maybe we'll get lucky again?"

They jogged on in silence, rounding bend after bend, and in minutes they'd reached a solid wall with two entwined serpents carved directly into the stone, their eyes made of gigantic, glittering emeralds. Hermione found herself squeezing Ron's hand harder as she stared at their eyes: They seemed alive.

_There's nothing to fear_ , she reminded herself as Ron made that odd hissing noise once more.  _The thing in that Chamber's been dead for years, thanks to Harry._ Even still, as the serpents parted—it obeyed Ron's command on the first try this time—the doors sliding back, Hermione considered the idea that irrational fear was called so because it was just that: irrational.

Hand-in-hand, they stepped inside to find themselves in a long chamber; it had a greenish glow about it, but Hermione couldn't quite pinpoint the source of the illumination, and there were massive columns carved with more entwined serpents, supporting a ceiling that disappeared out of sight, obscured by the swallowing darkness.

As they walked cautiously forward—that irrational fear was very real and pressed in on her stiflingly—the eyes of the snakes carved into the columns seemed to follow them. When they at last reached the last row of columns, an enormous, ancient statue loomed into view, but Hermione didn't attempt to crane her neck in order to get a better look at it: Her full attention was captivated by the very real, massive, decomposed snake that lay coiled at its feet.

"Right, then," Ron commented, clearing his throat, and Hermione got the impression that he was just as unsettled by the Chamber as she was. She tried imagine what it must have been like for Harry when he'd come in here utterly alone as a young boy, knowing that the snake was very much alive and that he could very realistically stumble across Ginny's lifeless body.

In the present, Ron was carefully picking his way over the dead basilisk's coils, moving toward its massive head; he then knelt in front of it without preamble and began attempting to rip its fangs bodily from its skull.

"Ron, get out of the way," she said as she followed him, aiming her wand at the ugly, decomposed head. He moved aside obediently, and in minutes all of its immense yellow teeth were cut neatly out of its skull, and she and Ron were stuffing them inside her beaded bag—save for one.

"This one's for you, I think," Ron said as he withdrew Hufflepuff's cup out of an inner jacket pocket.

Hermione felt an unexplainable anxiety as she stared at the thing.

"It'll lie to you, feed on your insecurities," Ron warned as they picked their way back across the dead snake, and he sat it down on the cold stone floor of the Chamber. "The bit of Riddle in the locket showed me my worst fears, but you're braver than me, stronger than me. Just be quick about it, don't give it a chance." He kissed her briefly in encouragement as he handed her the basilisk fang. "You've got this, sweetheart," he said with a grin, and she couldn't help but smile back at him.

On the ground, the Horcrux trembled as if sensing its end was near, and Hermione gripped the basilisk fang in both hands, shaking, as she knelt before it, preparing herself to stab the thing—

The cup glowed red-hot, as though it had been dipped in molten lava, and a voice exploded from it in a piercing hiss, drowning out all else:  _"I know the secret fears of your heart, Hermione Granger."_

Hermione froze, simultaneously entranced and horrified as the voice continued:

" _Never truly belonging to the Muggle world, nor the Magical, seeking acceptance from your peers and teachers through performance, through acceleration in the classroom, yet eternally unnoticed by the one who mattered the most to you, the boy who was happy to copy your schoolwork but who perpetually shunned you, who chose your superficially more beautiful dorm mate…"_

"Hermione, it's lying!" Ron shouted urgently. "Stab it now!"

"… _and now that you've finally won that boy's affections,"_ the high hiss continued _,_   _"you stand to lose everything…"_

Out of the rim of the cup bloomed the head of a small fiery-haired girl, a girl who resembled Hermione a great deal, and yet some of her features were inarguably Ron's: She was vivid and large as life as she cowered on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets in the spot where the cup had previously been.

The child looked up at Hermione with bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes as she sobbed; she wore a dirty, bloodied, once-white gown that was ripped in several places, her skin was pale, lightly freckled, but covered in bruises: Some were fresh purple and red, others a sickly yellowish green. The illusion was so utterly authentic, so fully realized that Hermione completely forgot that there was no possibility that the child was actually there. She was concurrently horrified and petrified; she couldn't move; the fang lay forgotten at her side.

"Mummy," the girl wailed pathetically through her sobs as her small, frail body trembled. "Help me... Don't let them hurt me anymore... _please_ …"

Tears streamed unencumbered down Hermione's face as she reached a tremulous hand for the child, who reached back for her. The tips of the little girl's fingers were dirty and bloodied, as if she'd been clawing at an immovable surface.

"Hermione, she isn't real!"Ron bellowed. "It's trying to trick you! You've got to stab it now!"

The little girl began to scream then, a terrible, shrill, gruesome sound, and Hermione found herself sinking to her knees in front of the child, her hands outstretched, wanting to help but not knowing how…

" _Help me, Mummy!"_ the girl screamed in evident pain and terror, her eyes darting around wildly in her small face. " _PLEASE!"_

" _HERMIONE!"_ Ron pleaded, almost as desperately as the child.  _"Get rid of it! That's not our daughter!"_

"I'm sorry!" Hermione wailed, her voice thick with her own tears as she raised the fang once more, her hands shaking more violently than ever. "I'm so sorry, but…but you're not my daughter!"

" _Mummy, NO!"_ the child screamed as Hermione closed her eyes, lunged forward, and brought the fang down—

The scream became terribly distorted, and it was no longer that of a little girl, but, rather, the high-pitched hiss that belonged to Riddle. Hermione felt a pair of strong arms come around her shoulders as the scream finally, mercifully died, and when she at long last pried her eyes open, she realized with some astonishment that she was sobbing uncontrollably. Her face was wet with her tears, and she was in Ron's arms; he was holding her against his chest, rocking her gently, and they were both crouching on the cold floor next to a ruined cup, oozing with blood.

The little girl was gone. Hermione knew that she'd never really been there, but the vision of the beaten, bloodied child who had looked so much like both her and Ron was now branded horribly and permanently into her memory; as were the girl's terrible, desperate screams.

"She wasn't real, she wasn't real," Ron was saying, again and again, his own voice shaky. When Hermione finally looked at him properly, she saw that his eyes were red-rimmed as if he, too, had been crying, and she knew that he was trying to convince  _himself_  of that fact just as much as he was her.

At long last, Hermione's tears dried up, and Ron pulled her gingerly to her feet.

"You did great, sweetheart," he said, cupping her chin and peering into her face. "That was…way worse than  _my_ Horcrux." He let out a shaky breath. "I'm proud of you."

She smiled weakly as he gently kissed her. "Let's get the hell out of here," she said as Ron picked up the ruined Horcrux and tucked it away before summoning the broomstick he'd dropped at the entrance to the Chamber.

As he helped her climb on it, Hermione suddenly felt light, the realization that they were one more Horcrux down hitting her like a ton of bricks, and, madly, absurdly she began to giggle at the idea.


	22. A Tragedy

_This segment begins at the end DH, Chapter Thirty-One: The Battle of Hogwarts and continues on through Chapter Thirty-Three: The Prince's Tale._

oOo

The world seemed to end in an explosion of stone. One moment she, Ron, Harry, Percy, and Fred were battling a group of Death Eaters in the corridor outside the Room of Requirement, jets of light zooming by their heads, and in the next—she'd barely managed to cast a Shield Charm in time to protect herself from the crushing, showering rubble—Hermione was struggling to her feet amidst the wreckage that had, moments previously, been part of a wall: A blast of chilly air told her that there was a gaping hole where the wall had previously been.

Someone was crying out, panicked and grief-stricken, and Hermione's heart seemed to stop cold when she caught sight of Ron's familiar figure through the dust, crouching next to Percy over Fred, who was motionless amongst the debris of the shattered wall, his eyes open, staring blindly…

"No! Fred! No!"

It was Percy who was yelling, shaking his brother in a frantic bid to awaken him, and Hermione understood that desperation too well: She, too, couldn't believe that Fred could be dead. It wasn't possible; her rational mind rejected the possibility. Fred Weasley was so full of life and humor and everything good in this world…

Next to Percy, Ron was stunned into inaction, shocked beyond words as tear tracks streamed down his soot-dirtied face. Harry seized Hermione's hand at that instant, yanking her to her feet, and together they staggered forward over debris and fallen stones, intent on reaching the brothers.

She was shocked, stricken as she reached Ron's side and stared down at Fred's face. The shadow of his last laughed was still etched upon it, but the light behind his eyes had been extinguished irreversibly, and only then was her rational mind able to acknowledge what her senses were telling her. Grief washed over her then, rendering all else inconsequential, including the battle that still raged around them, when Harry abruptly shouted, "Get down!"

Before she had time to react, she was being dragged to the floor by both Ron and Harry, and in the space of a microsecond she concluded why: Curses were flying at them from the hole in the side of the castle, gouging out large chunks of wall behind them.

Ron threw his arms around Percy's shoulders, attempting to heft him out of harm's way, but the elder brother clung steadfastly to Fred's lifeless body; Harry was pleading with Percy that they had to keep moving, but Hermione was distracted in that instant by a dark, horrendous figure clamoring up through the opening in the wall: A giant spider, evidently one of Aragog's descendants, had joined the fray.

Hermione screamed on reflex, words escaping her, as Ron and Harry's heads snapped in the direction she was staring. Unhesitatingly, they began firing curses at its ugly, hairy body, and it fell backwards, hurtling back toward the ground. It didn't seem to make much of a difference, though, as others had soon replaced it, its brothers and sisters scrambling up through the gap.

After several moments of repelling the enormous spiders with curse after curse, Harry yelled something before grabbing her by her shoulders and shoving her up the corridor, toward Ron, who seized her hand, pulling her away from the bloodthirsty arachnids. He was shaking in rage and grief next to her as they made their way through smoke and debris. Utter chaos ensued: People were running to and fro, shouting, dueling, and it was difficult to make out who was friend and who was foe amidst the pandemonium.

Ron had his wand hand raised, absolute hatred in his eyes as he screamed,  _"Avada Kedavra!"_ at a nameless cloaked Death Eater, who dropped like a rock, as prone and lifeless as Fred. The students he'd been dueling wheeled around, looking at Ron in combined surprise and gratitude.

Feeling shaken—Ron had never once aimed to kill before—Hermione grabbed his arm, yanking him with all her might behind a nearby tapestry, using all of the physical strength she possessed to restrain him against the wall.

"Get off me, Hermione— _I've gotta fight_!" His eyes were wild, almost mad in his rage, and he was breathing heavily, his face streaked with dirt and tears.

Hermione was well aware that he could easily move her physically out of his way if he desired, but she also knew that he would never use force with her, and she used that knowledge to her advantage. "Ron, stop it, you're not thinking straight, you're grieving, and you may not care right now, but you've just killed a man—"

" _So fucking what?"_  Ron spat, more enraged than she'd ever seen him. "This is  _war_ , Hermione! They don't fucking care who  _they_  kill—they just murdered my brother, in case you didn't notice! They'll kill as many of us as they can, so you can bet your arse I'm gonna kill as many of the fuckers as _I_  fucking can!"

She recoiled slightly at his words and at his blinding, all-encompassing wrath, but she held her ground, her body pressed tightly against his in an effort to keep him from slipping around her. "Ron, it won't bring back Fred," she said in a desperate, tremulous whisper, aware that her words were clichéd and meaningless but not knowing what else to say. Possibly even more horrifying to her than Fred's death was seeing Ron like this. She never wanted to see this cold soullessness in his eyes ever again.

"Maybe not, but it'll sure as fuck make me feel better. I want  _revenge_ , Hermione!"

Fresh tears fell down her face as her own anguish, which she'd put on a backburner in order to deal with Ron, began to overwhelm her, but she forced back the threatening sobs. Now wasn't the time or the place.

How many other innocents had already died tonight? How many were being struck down at this very moment? Her thoughts flickered in succession to Luna, Dean, Ginny, Neville, Seamus, the other Weasleys, Remus and Tonks, Lavender, Parvati, Padma, to all of her friends and classmates and teachers and fellow DA members and the Order of the Phoenix. They were all good people, loyal to Harry, loyal to Dumbledore, and none of them were guaranteed to live past tonight.

Abruptly, there was a bellow of "ROOKWOOD!" from the other side of the tapestry, and Hermione peered through a gap in time to see Percy in hot pursuit of a Death Eater, and Harry wasn't far behind him—

"Harry, in here!" Hermione screamed, poking her head out before turning back to Ron: "Ron, listen, we have to concentrate on Horcruxes. There's only one left—"

"Fuck that, I wanna—"

"Listen to me— _LISTEN, RON!"_

"I wanna help—," he was talking over her as Harry joined them, "—I wanna kill Death Eaters—"

"Ron, we're the only ones who can end it!" she said desperately. "Please—Ron—we need the snake, we've got to kill the snake! We  _will_ fight!" she added. "We'll have to, to reach the snake! But let's not lose sight of what we're supposed to be d-doing! We're the only ones who can end it!"

She had begun to sob again, but she forced herself not to lose her head or her hold of her emotions. Everything was riding on their immediate actions. Still holding on to Ron, she turned to Harry then: "You need to find out where Voldemort is, because he'll have the snake with him, won't he? Do it, Harry—look inside him!"

She was vaguely aware of the irony that she, Hermione, was asking Harry to use the very connection that she had badgered him for months to try and close, but now was not the time for I-told-you-so's, and Harry didn't seem inclined to give her one as he closed his eyes immediately. She knew that he was immersing himself in Voldemort's mind, and she held her breath as she waited for him to open his eyes once more.

Her body was still pressed against Ron's, but he was no longer struggling. Having apparently come back to his senses a bit, he eagerly watched Harry; there was, however, a shadow of the former fury in his eyes, and that shadow scared Hermione a little.

"He's in the Shrieking Shack," Harry finally said with a gasp, his eyes snapping open. "The snake's with him, it's got some sort of magical protection around it. He's just sent Lucius Malfoy to find Snape."

"Voldemort's sitting in the Shrieking Shack?" asked Hermione, feeling outraged. "He's not—he's not even  _fighting_?"

"He doesn't think he needs to fight. He thinks I'm going to go to him."

"But why?"

"He knows I'm after Horcruxes," Harry replied. "He's keeping Nagini close beside him—obviously I'm going to have to go to him to get near the thing—"

"Right," Ron said abruptly, squaring his shoulders as he straightened. "So you can't go, that's what he wants, what he's expecting. You stay here and look after Hermione, and I'll go and get it—"

"You two stay here," Harry cut Ron off. "I'll go under the Cloak, and I'll be back as soon as I—"

"No," said Hermione, "it makes much more sense if I take the Cloak and—"

"Don't even think about it," Ron snarled at her. "Are you  _insane_? In what universe does that make more sense?"

"Ron, I'm just as capable—"

"You're also  _pregnant_ , in case you've forgotten, or don't you care what happens to our baby? What, you think Voldemort would hesitate to cut down a pregnant Muggle-born?"

Hermione felt her face drain of color at his words, but before she could formulate a coherent response, the tapestry was ripped open: "POTTER!"

" _Glisseo!"_ Hermione shouted, reacting instinctively at the sight of the two Death Eaters, and the stairs beneath their feet were transformed abruptly into a chute: She, Harry, and Ron hurtled down it, unable to control their velocity as the Death Eaters' Stunning Spells whizzed overhead, barely avoiding them. Hermione shot out the bottom of the shaft, flying through another tapestry and landing against Ron with a muffled thud.

Before she'd recovered, she aimed her wand at the tapestry they'd just burst through, and abruptly a solid wall was erected in its place, and she took a dark satisfaction in the sickening crunches that indicated that the Death Eaters had smashed into it.

The events that transpired next were like remembered moments from a murky, incoherent dream: She would later recall McGonagall charging by shepherding a herd of desks, Harry throwing the Cloak over the three of them before racing down some stairs, passing more dueling students and enemies, Peeves zooming by overhead and launching Snargaluff pods at the heads of Death Eaters.

She would recall Draco Malfoy pleading with someone and Ron slugging him in the jaw as they passed, and in the entrance hall Hermione blasted Fenrir Greyback off of Lavender. More spiders were forcing their way into the front hall, and they carried off Hagrid, which propelled Harry to charge off in pursuit of him…

She would recall Ron streaking off after Harry, half-dragging her in his wake; Grawp and another giant were having it out with a vicious savagery just outside the castle; and then she was tearing across the grounds of Hogwarts with Ron and Harry, and hundreds of dementors were swooping down on them, but they somehow, inexplicably, couldn't produce their Patronuses to save themselves.

Luna, Ernie, and Seamus came to their rescue then, their own Patronuses shining brilliantly in the gloom, chasing off the dementors. Then another giant lurched out of the forest, club swinging, and Hermione, Harry, and, Ron dashed off in the direction of the Whomping Willow at full speed on Harry's command, a horrible stitch in her side, her lungs burning with the effort to drag in air.

"How—how're we going to get in?" panted Ron when they'd reached the flailing tree. "I can—see the place—if we just had—Crookshanks again—"

"Crookshanks?" Hermione wheezed, bent over at the waist as she tried desperately to catch her breath. She felt like she was going to vomit, or pass out, or both.  _"Are you a wizard, or what?"_

"Oh—right—yeah— _Wingardium Leviosa!_ "said Ron, aiming his wand at a twig, which flew up from the ground, spun around, and jabbed the spot near the roots of the tree, and it was rendered immobile.

"Perfect!" Hermione panted, one arm across her belly as she attempted to control her breathing.

"Wait," Harry said, hesitating.

Ron glanced at Hermione then, the expression on his face pained, uncertain, and she understood his dilemma: He didn't want her going in there with him and Harry, but he wouldn't leave her alone out here, either. "Harry, we're coming, just get in there!" he finally said in resignation, pushing Harry forward.

In the moments that followed, they were crammed into the tight space beneath the tree, climbing through the secret passageway that led to the Shrieking Shack, where Voldemort currently sat awaiting Harry's arrival. Hermione felt anxious, fear stirring in her gut as she followed Harry through the tunnel, Ron directly behind her, but she wouldn't allow herself to linger on her fear and uncertainty.

When they approached the end of the passageway, she squeezed Harry's Cloak up to him, and he extinguished his wand; there were voices from above them, very near, and Hermione's heart raced in her chest as she heard the high, cold timbre of Voldemort's voice. He and Snape were discussing the Elder Wand, and Hermione felt sick to her stomach; it tightened uncomfortably as she followed the conversation that lasted for several minutes, and her instincts knew without a doubt what was coming.

She had to wonder if Snape, too, sensed the encroaching danger, but if he did, he didn't show it; he retained his poker face—or voice, as the case may be, since Hermione couldn't actually see him—keeping his cards clutched against himself.

"You have been a good and faithful servant," Voldemort was now saying, "and I regret what must happen."

"My Lord—"

"The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, Severus, because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot be truly mine."

"My Lord!" protested Snape.

"It cannot be any other way," Voldemort continued. "I must master the wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I master Potter at last."

Although Hermione couldn't see what transpired next, she felt chilled by the sounds of the struggle that ensued, and her stomach tightened again at the sound of the grotesque scream that followed. She wanted to clamp her hands over her ears, but there wasn't room in the cramped passageway where she currently crouched on her hands and knees.

"Harry!" Hermione breathed, moments later, feeling startled as she saw Harry shifting in front of her, and she realized he was moving the crate that blocked the entrance to the tunnel. But he was climbing out of the tunnel in the next instant, and Hermione knew that Voldemort must have vacated the room.

She clamored out after him, aware that Ron was climbing out behind her, but her full attention was captivated by the dying man on the floor. Severus Snape lay bleeding heavily from a wound in his neck on the rotted floorboards, his skin somehow paler than usual, a hideous gurgling noise issuing from his throat as he attempted to speak: "Take…it… Take…it."

And from his mouth, ears, and eyes leaked…his memories. There was something Snape wanted to share with Harry. Hermione acted quickly, conjuring a flask, which she placed in Harry's hands, who then used his wand to lift Snape's silvery memories inside it.

"Look…at…me," Snape whispered, his last words, his dying wish, and Hermione watched on as Harry obeyed, his eyes meeting the dying man's…and then the light was gone from Snape's black eyes, his hand that had been gripping Harry's shirt thudding to the floor, and he was gone as surely as Fred was.

She, Harry, and Ron merely stared in silence at the dead man for several drawn-out moments, and as they did she contemplated all that had transpired, the conversation they'd overheard, Snape's deathbed desire to give Harry his memories—

Voldemort's voice cut into her thoughts, and Hermione jumped so violently, sure that he'd reentered the room, that the child in her stomach gave a jerk. It was, however, merely his voice that permeated the very air around them, and she knew that the whole of Hogsmeade could hear it as well.

When he was done speaking, having declared that he was giving the resistance one hour to collect their dead and injured and for Harry to give himself up, Hermione shook herself, glancing at the others. "It'll be all right," she said wildly, horrified by the idea of Harry handing himself over but knowing that he would consider it. "Let's—let's get back to the castle, if he's gone to the forest we'll need to think of a new plan."

She glanced at Snape's body one last time before hurrying back to the tunnel, Ron following close behind her.

They made it across the lawn and up the steps into the entrance hall of the castle without speaking. All was quiet, which was quite disconcerting after the clamor of the battle, and no one was in sight. "Where is everyone?" Hermione finally whispered, and Ron responded by wordlessly leading them to the Great Hall.

Her question was answered immediately: Everyone was gathered here, the dead, the living, and the injured. The House tables were gone, and families and friends were huddled in groups, some weeping, some in despairing silences. The injured were being treated by Madam Pomfrey and some helpers—Hermione was relieved to see Lavender stirring as some fresh wounds on her face were treated—and the dead were lined up in the middle of the hall.

She knew where Fred's body was instantly, because his family surrounded him. Ron's hand slipped into hers then, and as she glanced at him she saw he wasn't looking at her: He was looking at his mother, who was sprawled across Fred's chest, sobbing in grief while his father stroked her hair, tears streaking down his own cheeks. She couldn't see George's face where he knelt at his dead twin's head, but she could imagine…

Ron was walking, zombie-like, toward his family, tugging Hermione with him, and she allowed herself to be led forward, her arms coming around Ginny the instant she reached her. The younger girl sobbed into Hermione's shoulder as they embraced, and she felt the tears rising in her own eyes once more, and she cried with Ginny.

Over Ginny's shoulder, she saw Remus and Tonks, as lifeless and unmoving as Fred, lined up on the floor, and she cried harder as it truly hit her for the first time that it could've been her and her unborn child, it could've been Ron and Harry, might still be…

As Ginny broke away from her, moving to hug Ron, whose arms were currently wrapped around Percy, she felt Mr. Weasley's eyes on her.

"Hermione…" His voice, thick and raspy with his tears, was startled. "You're bleeding…"

Alarmed, Hermione looked down at herself. Spreading out from her inner thighs, staining the plain gray sweatpants she'd tugged on after the escape from Gringotts, was a wide arc of deep burgundy that almost reached her knees. Only in that moment did she become aware of the sticky wetness there and the cramping sensation in her abdomen. She'd been so completely caught up by everything else that had happened that it had obliterated all else, and she hadn't noticed…

She became light headed in that moment, and her legs gave out beneath her.


	23. A Life Ends, Another Begins

_This segment begins in DH, Chapter Thirty-Three: The Prince's Tale._

oOo

" _Hermione!"_

Time seemed to slow down. It was like with Fred, only somehow, impossibly worse. One moment Ron was holding Ginny as she sobbed her misery, and in the next his father's voice rang out through the crowded Hall of mourners, injured, and the dead.

His heart seemed to stop cold in his chest as his eyes shot to Hermione, who looked down at herself in the instant before she swayed on her feet. As Ron practically threw his sister aside in his desperation to reach Hermione, he registered in the instant that he caught her that she was bleeding from between her legs—and badly. How he hadn't noticed before was beyond him, but he didn't have time to ponder on it as he reached her at the same instant as his father and Bill.

"Hermione!" Ron gasped as he caught her. "HELP!" he bellowed in wild desperation toward Madam Pomfrey and her helpers, panic gripping him, fear for his wife and unborn child wiping all else from his mind, including his dead brother who lay mere feet from him.

"Ron, what…?" said his dad, looking confused and anxious, but Ron wasn't paying him any attention as Madam Pomfrey came jogging toward them, huffing in exertion as she leapt over bodies to get to them.

"Please help," Ron panted, his body trembling in dread when she reached them, clutching Hermione against himself. "Please, she's pregnant…" She'd apparently passed out, because she was now unconscious in his shaking arms.

Promptly, Madam Pomfrey began shouting orders to her helpers, and in moments Hermione had been moved toward a cleared spot in the Great Hall, a three-sided privacy screen erected around her as she was placed on a cot.

Ron watched on from the open end of the screen, feeling helpless as the Healers busied themselves: Someone was tipping a potion down Hermione's throat while Madam Pomfrey waved her wand over her stomach, muttering under her breath in much the same way that Fleur had done all those weeks ago after their escape from Malfoy Manor.

He wanted to know what was going on, if she and the baby were going to be all right, but he was scared to interrupt…

"We must act immediately," Madam Pomfrey said quickly but calmly, without looking at Ron. "There has been a placental abruption. Ordinarily I could repair it magically, but blood is leaking into the embryonic sack, and fast. We must remove the child in order to save her."

Ron was nodding mechanically as he processed what she was telling him. "Do it—anything it takes."

"Are you the father, Mr. Weasley?" There was no judgment in her voice; she merely sought the facts of the situation.

"Y—yeah, she's my wife…we're bonded."

She nodded once more without looking at him as she continued to work, and Ron was aware that his father was standing next to him, undoubtedly looking stunned, but he couldn't remove his eyes from Hermione.

"Will—will they be all right?" he asked weakly.

"If we can remove the child in time, they should both be fine," Madam Pomfrey replied distractedly as she worked.

"She 'as 'ad an abruption before," spoke up Fleur, who'd stepped up behind Ron. "I repaired it."

"Yes, well, magical reparations of placental abruptions never seem to be permanent," Madam Pomfrey replied briskly. "She should never have been out of bed, much less here fighting. I'm going to cut into her now," she added. "Mr. Weasley, stay if you'd like, but everyone else—out."

His dad, Fleur, Bill, Ginny, and all the others who'd pressed in around them at the open mouth of the enclosure—including his mother, who'd been watching, her red-rimmed eyes wide in her blotchy face, her hand clamped over her mouth—disappeared from sight, and a fourth wall was erected, sealing Ron inside with Hermione and the team of Healers.

Ron felt sick to his stomach as he watched them cut away Hermione's blood-stained clothing from his corner of the enclosure; he was aware of the voices on the other side of the thin walls, speaking excitedly, worriedly, and he thought he heard his mother's continued sobs and her gasp of  _"My grandchild…?_ " but his complete attention was captured by what was happening with his wife.

"She's entirely sedated," Madam Pomfrey explained calmly as she brandished her wand, positioning it once more across Hermione's abdomen. "She won't feel a thing, but I'd suggest that if you're weak-stomached that you turn away, Mr. Weasley—and please, keep out of the way."

Ron continued to watch, simultaneously horrified and entranced as Madam Pomfrey quickly but carefully sliced into Hermione's stomach in an expert manner, the blood beading along the incision before being siphoned away by one of the helpers. His stomach churning, he couldn't help but think of Bellatrix's knife, but that thought was wiped away in the next moment, and as they opened her up—he couldn't help it, he couldn't watch, he would likely vomit or pass out if he did—he turned away, feeling lightheaded. He gripped a nearby potions cabinet that had been floated in as the minutes passed, and he listened to the nauseating sounds that indicated that the Healers were removing the child from Hermione's stomach.

"She isn't breathing," someone finally said after an eternity had passed, and that had Ron's head shooting in their direction—

Madam Pomfrey was holding something small, bloodied, and thrashing in the palm of one hand, her wand clutched in the other as she circled it over what Ron knew to be a premature infant. "Lungs are underdeveloped," she murmured as she worked, and in the next moments something that resembled a large bubble was floating near her head, and she placed the silent, squirming newborn inside it, sealing it shut…

"Think of this as a substitute womb," Madam Pomfrey explained to him as she continued to wave her wand over the floating sphere. The umbilical cord—still attached to the writhing infant—sealed itself to the inside wall of the bubble, and, sure enough, it resembled to Ron a sort of transparent, floating womb. "This will serve as an incubator of sorts, it shall feed her nutrition, protect her, until her lungs are more fully matured and she's ready to come out. Mr. Weasley, perhaps you would like to sit down before you fall down? It won't do for me to have another patient to attend to."

"Hermione?" Ron breathed in an exhale, and he hadn't realized until that moment that he'd been holding his breath.

"She'll be fine. She's lost quite a bit of blood, but she should recover nicely."

On the cot, Hermione's still face was pale, almost lifeless, and he felt ill once more when he compared her to his recent memories of Fred. However, he took comfort in Madam Pomfrey's words as he plopped down into a chair that had materialized out of nowhere.

The Healers were still hard at work, and, minutes later, the wound in Hermione's stomach was neatly closed, leaving a thin pink line that would fade over time, and the blood was cleaned off of the sheets beneath her. As she was wrapped in a set of Healer's robes, his eyes flickered once more to the artificial womb off to the side of the enclosure.

His daughter was so tiny, tinier than he could've imagined…so helpless, and he felt undeniable fear for her as he thought of Voldemort, waiting now for Harry in the Forbidden Forest. How would tonight end? "Rose," he whispered aloud, the name that Hermione had picked. He hadn't cared, really. She could've chosen the name "Gertrude," and that would have been fine with Ron. He'd had everything that he'd wanted.

Madam Pomfrey smiled at him grimly then, relaxing somewhat now that the majority of her work was complete. "They'll both be fine," she reassured him once more, but there was an underscore of something dark in her tone, and Ron knew what she was thinking: Unless Voldemort was defeated tonight, _no one_  would be fine. "I must attend to my other patients now. Miss Gonzalez," she added, addressing one of her helpers, and now that the immediate crisis was averted, Ron recognized her as a sixth-year Hufflepuff whose name he'd never known, "please move Miss Gr—Mrs. Weasley and the child to the infirmary."

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," Ron said weakly but sincerely, and she patted him on the back awkwardly as she passed. When she waved her wand at the fourth wall, it vanished.

"Poppy," said McGonagall's voice immediately, "I—"

Her voice broke off, and Ron, who'd moved to take Hermione's unmoving hand in his, looked up in time to see Professor McGonagall's eyes flashing between him, Hermione, and the premature infant in the artificial womb. Her eyes widened in a similar manner as Lavender's had a thousand years ago, but before she could get out more than, "Mr. Weasley, what…?" his mother came bursting back into the enclosure.

Her eyes, too, landed on the floating sphere as she ran forward, engulfing Ron in her arms. Tears were still streaming down her face. "Bill just told me everything—I can't believe—why didn't you—?—and Hermione—!— _bonded_ —and a granddaughter—!— _what's she even doing here?"_

She was incoherent, seemingly torn between her anguish over Fred, fury that she hadn't been informed about their bonding and Hermione's pregnancy, and relief that Hermione and the baby seemed fine. "Are they—?"

"They'll be fine, Mum," Ron said quickly, an abrupt wave of exhaustion washing over him as others crowded around the entranceway behind McGonagall: He saw Ginny, Percy, Luna, Seamus, Lavender—her face horribly scarred—and others, but they all bled into a sea of faces as he sought out Harry, who seemed to have disappeared.

"Excuse me," called Gonzalez, the sixth-year Hufflepuff, loudly, "I'm under orders to move them to the hospital, so could everyone clear out, please?"

Even as she spoke, the other acting Healers were in the process of removing the temporary enclosure. Those crowding around them complied, backing out of the way, and Hermione's cot and the sphere containing their daughter were soon floating through the Great Hall.

Ron ran beside them, calling out to people to clear a path as others watched them curiously, chattering amongst themselves. He was aware of people jogging next to him, helping to shepherd mourners out of the way: McGonagall, his mother, Ginny, Percy, and others.

Minutes later, they'd made their way to the hospital wing, but Ron barely remembered the journey. As Hermione was transferred to a regular bed and the floating sphere came to a halt nearby—one of the helpers was waving his wand over the infant, evidently inspecting that she was stabilized—Ron collapsed into a nearby chair, edging it closer to Hermione.

He then took her hand in his own, leaning over her, feeling on the verge of passing out.

"You're in shock," said Gonzalez, who was pressing something into his hands. "Drink this—it'll help—and then you should get some rest. You can use this bed next to hers if you'd like."

Ron drank the potion obediently, but he shook his head in refusal at the idea of rest as he thought of Harry once more. Where was he, anyway? Voldemort said he'd give them an hour for Harry to turn himself in—how much time had elapsed since then? Half an hour? Forty-five minutes? Had a full hour perhaps already passed?

Panic seized his heart at that thought, outshining his previous feeling of relief: What if Harry had gone into the woods to find Voldemort, to give himself up? "Harry," he said, sitting up straight, "someone's gotta find Harry…" He was torn between his desire to search for his best friend, to make sure he hadn't decided to seek out Voldemort, and staying here with his wife and child. He'd never before felt so overwhelmingly undecided, so wholly pulled in two different directions.

He didn't even have anyone to discuss it with, either, since Hermione was still unconscious…

Beside him, crammed between Hermione's bed and the next, his mother, McGonagall, Ginny, and Fleur were all staring at the artificial womb, mirrored expressions of wonder on their faces. The women, save for McGonagall, were crying again—perhaps they'd never stopped—and Ginny reached out, placing her hand on Ron's shoulder.

Apparently none of them had heard him express his concern about Harry. His mother had both hands pressed to her mouth. "My grandchild," she whispered, again and again, as if trying to process this unforeseen, inexplicable turn of events. Ordinarily, he knew that his mother might have raged at him; she might have lectured him on his irresponsibility and the demands of teenaged parenthood, much as Bill had, but the loss of Fred and their immediate danger had changed everything.

His mother had lost a son that day, but had gained a granddaughter, all in a matter of hours.

But nothing was guaranteed. The fighting would no doubt commence very soon, and Voldemort had threatened to join the fray this time…

"We've gotta get them outta here," he said suddenly, feeling stunned that he hadn't insisted on that course of action in the first place. "When the fighting starts up again they won't be safe here. We need to get them to the Room of Requirement…"

He frowned then, his prior worry coming back to him in a heartbeat. Would the Room even work now after that Fiendfyre that had raged out of control?

He was in the process of asking Ginny if she could go and check the Room when Hermione stirred feebly, a small moan escaping her lips. All eyes in the room looked down at her in time to see her eyes fluttering open, her pupils slowly focusing on Ron's face.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said softly.

She made to smile at him then, but her eyes abruptly widened in panic and fear as she undoubtedly recalled what had happened before she'd lost consciousness, and she was trying to sit up, her hands groping at her stomach. "My baby—"

"—is fine," Ron said reassuringly as he tried to get her to lie back down, gesturing at the floating sphere next to the bed. The four women had stepped back in order to give her an unobstructed view.

She relaxed visibly, letting out a rush of breath, as her head fell back against the pillow. Gonzalez was at her side immediately, squeezing around Ron, pressing a bottle into her hands. "Take it easy, Hermione," she said, "and drink this—it'll help."

"Thanks, Michelle," Hermione replied weakly, appreciatively, as she titled her head back, downing the potion; her eyes never once left the hovering sphere. "Wha—what happened?" Ron watched as her eyes briefly passed over the others crowded around her bed, lingering briefly on his mother. He found himself wishing that they all would leave. He wanted to be alone with his wife and daughter.

"Placental abruption," Michelle answered. "Your baby will be fine; we've placed her in an artificial womb. Madam Pomfrey says she'll have to stay there until her lungs are a bit more developed."

Abruptly, Hermione gasped dramatically, bolting up in bed as her hand ripped from Ron's. "Harry! Ron— _where's Harry?_ How much time has passed since Voldemort gave him an hour—?"

Before Ron could respond, however, a familiar, dreaded voice infused the room, emanating from nowhere and everywhere all at once: "Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he was running away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone..."

His heart was enveloped by cold fear and dread as he and Hermione stared at each other, and Voldemort's speech ended. Around them, the others gasped, clutching each other. McGonagall had sprung from the room as if she was being chased by Fiendfyre, undoubtedly heading down to the entrance hall, and Percy, Bill, and Fleur were just behind her. When Ginny made to follow her brothers and sister-in-law, her mother grabbed onto her arm, holding her firmly. "And just where do you think you're going, Ginevra?" she demanded of her daughter, her voice furious.

"It isn't true," Hermione said to Ron as mother and daughter argued behind them, shaking her head as tears cascaded down her face. "He can't be dead, he can't…" She was struggling to stand, but Ron restrained her.

"Hermione, what the bloody hell are you doing?" he demanded of her, his hands firmly on her shoulders.

"I've got to check, I've got to see," she said wildly, desperately.

Ron cursed under his breath. "What you've gotta do is stay here and take care of yourself, take care of our daughter; I'll go—"

"No, I've got to—"

"Hermione, for once in your bloody life, listen to me, and just do as I say, dammit! You're staying here with Rose. When I leave, I want you to cast your protective enchantments around this room, you got it? Every enchantment you can think of. And don't you leave this bloody room until after any fighting that you hear has stopped— _well_  after."

She stared at him for a long, charged moment, seemingly on the verge of arguing, but then she merely nodded, her face ashen, her lower lip trembling. "All right, Ron," she breathed. "Come back to me. Come back to  _us_."

He leaned down, and they embraced desperately, his lips meeting hers. "I love you," Hermione whispered tremulously when their lips had parted. "I love you, Ron."

"I love you, too, Hermione—so much."

Only then did he become aware that his mother and Ginny were still in the room, both looking stony and furious with each other. His mother turned to Hermione in the next instant, murmuring something as she hugged her briefly, and then she, too, dashed from the room. Ron followed his mother, glancing back briefly to the floating sphere that housed his daughter, and to where Hermione sat with Ginny, the two women embracing. "The enchantments!" he called back at them, and then he was racing through the castle.


	24. A Victory

_This segment begins in DH, Chapter Thirty-Six: The Flaw in the Plan._

oOo

"Help me up," said Hermione to Ginny the moment Ron and Mrs. Weasley had vanished out the door. "The enchantments…"

Ginny complied wordlessly, her face grim with obvious anxiety and fear, as she wrapped an arm about Hermione's shoulders, helping her gingerly to her feet. Hermione winced at the tender sensation in her abdomen as she moved.

"What are you doing?" exclaimed Michelle, who'd just rushed out of Madam Pomfrey's office, the pockets of her Healers' robes bulging with various potion bottles. It was only then that Hermione noticed the other occupants of the room, a half a dozen other stabilized patients like her tucked into hospital beds lined up the walls of the long room. "You shouldn't be out of bed!"

"Don't worry, I'm not making an escape attempt," Hermione replied as she leaned against Ginny, flourishing her wand and reciting the spells she'd memorized by heart over the past months. How many times had she cast these spells, anyway? "I'm putting up protection around this room."

Michelle nodded in comprehension, and then she raised her own wand, dashing to the other end of the room as she followed Hermione's lead, imitating the incantations that Hermione spoke. Soon, the enchantments were successfully in place: No one was getting in this room easily.

As Ginny helped Hermione move back toward her bed, her eyes were entranced by the transparent sphere where her tiny, frail-looking daughter drifted, apparently in a deep slumber. Her small limbs were closed in around herself, and Hermione thought she could distinguish a tuft of reddish hair on top of her head, but that could have been a trick of the dim lighting of the room.  _Rose._ Her sweet, precious daughter…

She experienced a moment of deep regret that she hadn't been conscious during the delivery, but that regret was overshadowed by the despair and fear that currently plagued her mind. Voldemort's serpent-like voice still rang in her ears as if it had never gone from the room:  _Harry Potter is dead… We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone…_

Tears fell from her eyes anew, a sob escaping her lips.  _Not Harry._ Voldemort had to be lying; of course he would say anything in his cruelty, in an effort to spread hopelessness and confusion and fear to his resistance, because Harry couldn't really be gone. Hermione outright refused to believe it, even as she concurrently attempted to stifle her fear for her husband. She shouldn't have let Ron go… She should have made him stay here with her, with their newborn daughter…

Her eyes lingered on Ginny then, who was standing at the nearest window, her face pressed against the glass. The younger girl's body rigid with her own fear, and Hermione knew that she was trying to glimpse any sign of movement, to hear any glimmer of sound from the grounds below, but they were too high up and too far removed from the front entrance of the castle. "I can't stand it," Ginny said abruptly, wheeling around, and there was a fierce determination in her eyes, in the set of her jaw. "I—I'm going to go down there. I have to know."

Hermione merely nodded. She understood her sister-in-law's desire all too well. "You'll look after Ron?" she whispered. "If Harry's really…"

She couldn't finish the thought aloud, but it circulated through her mind nevertheless, spreading its ugliness like cancer:  _If Harry's really dead, Ron will go berserk._ "Ginny, don't let Ron get himself killed," she whispered instead, her voice cracking slightly, "and—and take care of yourself, too. My daughter will need her aunt to balance out all those uncles," she added in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

Ginny laughed then, a hysterical, desperate sound, as she lunged forward, and they embraced for several long moments. "I'll take care of my brother if _you_  take care of my niece," Ginny said with a grim smile as she pulled away from Hermione, her eyes flashing toward the sphere.

"It's a deal," Hermione replied, releasing the younger girl, and then Ginny, too, rushed out the door, sealing it behind her.

Hermione shivered then, a rush of cold despair hitting her as she hugged herself. Michelle had retreated back inside Madam Pomfrey's office for some more supplies, so Hermione rose carefully from her bed once more, taking Ginny's place at the window. The grounds down below were darkened, seemingly deserted, and she couldn't hear a thing. If only—

Struck by sudden inspiration, Hermione's eyes darted about, spotting her beaded bag on the small nightstand shoved between her bed and the next, right beside her wand. She grabbed it up, groping inside for some Extendable Ears, then pressing one end into her ear and the other against the glass. It was only then that she could distinguish definite laughing and jeers, and Hermione's blood ran cold.

"NO!" someone screamed, and with a feeling of plummeting dread, she knew that there was one and only reason for someone to make that sort of terrible sound.

Others added to the mournful reverberation, reaffirming Hermione's fears, as if she needed such affirmation: "No!"  _"NO!"_ "Harry! HARRY!"

She slumped away from the window in defeat, pulling out the Extendable Ear with trembling hands. She couldn't hear anymore… She couldn't stand it.

Tears cascading down her face, she turned toward the place where her daughter slumbered, and she raised one hand toward the protective sphere. It was warm to the touch, the perfect temperature to house her daughter until she was ready to come out. "All's not lost, Rose," she said aloud to the oblivious child within, but it was really herself she sought to convince as she struggled to push aside the worst of her emotions and her fears.

Harry, her best friend aside from Ron, may be dead, but that didn't mean there wasn't any hope of defeating Voldemort, right?  _Right?_ Ron knew that the snake must die. If Ron could kill the snake, then one of the others could take out Voldemort himself, Kingsley or McGonagall, perhaps. Without his tethers to immortality, Voldemort was just a man like any other. Granted, a powerful man, but there were other powerful witches and wizards present, witches and wizards capable of taking on Voldemort…

There was a bellow of "SILENCE!" that was so piercing that Hermione didn't need the Extendable Ears to hear it. Her hand sliding from the sphere, she sat back down on her bed, her legs feeling numb. Michelle wandered over to her then, and she saw the other girl's eyes flash toward the window, a grim expression on her face.

"Is Harry…?"

She couldn't seem to finish the sentence as she lowered herself next to Hermione on the edge of the hospital bed. There were tears in her eyes, and a hopelessness that Hermione knew all too well. Though she'd never really known the Healer-in-training, having only exchanged brief pleasantries in the corridors between classes, she felt a kinship with Michelle in that moment. For all practical purposes, the world could end tonight, and this practical stranger could be the person she shared her last minutes or hours with.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," the younger girl whispered when Hermione merely shook her head, unable to speak, as she knew she would burst into sobs. "I know you were friends." Michelle paused, appearing hesitant, before voicing the question on her mind: "But You-Know-Who can still be killed, right? It doesn't  _have_  to be Harry, does it?"

"I don't know," Hermione admitted in a whisper. She didn't say out loud what she was thinking: That they had lost so many fighters already. How many others would die in an effort that could ultimately turn out to be fruitless, pointless? With a surge of extreme dismay, she thought of Ron, Ginny, Luna, Neville, and the other Weasleys. She thought about her parents. With any luck, they could live the remainder of their natural lives without ever being touched by any of this, although in her heart of hearts Hermione doubted that any location, Muggle or Magical, would be remote enough to completely escape all ramifications.

She found herself praying to any higher power that would listen because, in that moment, it was the only thing she  _could_  do:  _Please protect them. Please protect them._

As the two women lapsed into silence, Hermione's eyes fixated on her daughter once more. "I wish I could hold her," she said, voicing her wish while silently adding to her child,  _It's my fault you're in there, because I was so stubborn, so reckless, insisting on my own idea of 'the greater good_.' "Just once. If there's not a chance later—"

"There will be," the stranger next to her stated firmly.

"You can't know that," Hermione whispered, the helplessness pressing in on her, suffocating her. She felt like she might start screaming, but she knew that if she started she might never be able to stop.

"Maybe not," Michelle conceded, her arm coming around Hermione's shoulder, "but I've always thought of myself as a glass-half-full sort of girl, and I have a good feeling about this—"

A terrible, agony-filled scream rent the air, and Hermione sprang to her feet instinctively—and promptly doubled over as a fresh surge of pain ripped through her abdomen, which had only so recently been cut open.

"Hermione!" exclaimed Michelle, her arms coming around her, pulling her back down toward the bed. "You have to take it easy—"

There was a din of distant voices and what sounded like thundering footsteps of hundreds of people, drowning out the screams with unmistakable war cries. "Wha…?"

"Centaurs!" said Michelle, who'd edged toward the window. "I think they've come to help us! And…and is that a hippogriff?"

Hermione was silent, waiting with baited breath…

"I think they've forced everyone inside…" Michelle breathed after several more minutes had passed, and, sure enough, moments later resounding booms vibrated the very foundations of the castle. The battle had resumed, and Hermione allowed herself to retain a glimmer of hope that all wasn't lost quite yet.

oOo

It was over. They'd won.

Ron repeated it to himself, over and over again, as if trying to convince himself of that fact, to wrap his mind around what his eyes were telling him: Voldemort lie unmoving upon the floor of the Great Hall, stricken by his own ricocheted Killing Curse, while Harry—who was mercifully, miraculously alive after they'd all witnessed his seemingly lifeless body being displayed like a rag doll—gripped the Elder Wand in his outstretched hand. For a split-second, he appeared just as stunned as Ron felt.

The loaded, astounded pause that followed this abrupt victory lasted but the space of a heartbeat, and then Ron was literally throwing himself across the room and flinging his arms around his best friend; Ron was the first to awaken from his stupor, and then the others were following suit: Ginny, Neville, Luna, Ron's mother and father, his brothers, Hagrid, Kingsley, McGonagall, and many, many more all roared in combined elation, disbelief, and pleasure as they, too, threw themselves at Harry, grasping his hands, arms, clothing, anywhere they could reach.

"Where's Hermione?" Harry shouted at Ron over the raucous outcry, looking worried, but Ron could only get out a "She's all right—" before they were separated by the mass, as yet more people threw their arms around Harry, trying to touch some part of The Boy Who Lived, the reason that it was thankfully, finally over.

Ron allowed himself to be carried away, to be pushed and pulled to the outskirts of the throng, his immediate concerns turning to his wife and daughter now that the imminent danger was out of the way. It occurred to Ron for the first time that they all possibly had  _years_  now, eons of time, and his daughter would be safe and happy, she would grow up loved and surrounded by family—his thoughts flickered briefly to those lost, to Fred, Remus, Tonks, and others, but he pushed that unpleasantness to the side, locking his grief away for the time being—and it was all thanks to Harry. And Hermione, he added to himself.

Without Hermione they would likely have starved to death out there, or died of exposure, since it was thanks to her that they'd had clothing and shelter; without her, they'd never have known how to destroy Horcruxes, and he and Harry would have been left blundering about, aimless, in the dark.

He had an idea that she'd be blaming herself for the reoccurrence of the placental abruption, so Ron had to make sure that she knew how crucial of a role she'd played in Voldemort's downfall. Without her, all would have been lost.

"Bill," he said, catching hold of his eldest brother's arm, who was clutching a weeping Fleur against his chest, "I've gotta get back up to Hermione—tell Harry where I'm at when you can?"

His brother embraced him briefly as he nodded, and then Ron was squeezing his way through the Great Hall, which was now bright with early morning sunlight. He became sidetracked as people stopped him to pump his hand: "Blimey, I heard you helped Harry!"

As he was releasing the hand of the third stranger who'd stopped him with a similar sentiment, Ron bowled right into Lavender, his arms coming around her unthinkingly in order to steady her, and it was only then that he got a good look at her face: Her right cheek was now scarred in a similar manner as Bill's, the fresh wounds a bright pink that would fade to white over time but never heal, and Ron felt doubly angry at that bastard Greyback but slightly satisfied that he and Neville had been the ones to take him out.

Lavender smiled at him weakly as she awkwardly hugged him. "How's Hermione and…and the baby?" she asked as she released him.

"Good, they're good, I was just on my way up to tell them that we've won."

She smiled at that as she nodded. "Tell her I'll come to see her once things have calmed down. I—I want to apologize to her."

"Lav, you don't have to—you didn't—it was all me. I treated you both—"

"But I knew exactly what I was doing," she said, talking over him. "I'm just as guilty. I knew how she felt about you, it was so obvious, and I went after you anyway, and then I flaunted our relationship—I—I even said some things that weren't exactly truthful..." She touched her face then, wincing. "Do you know who saved me from him?" she whispered, changing subjects abruptly. "Did you see? I've been asking everyone…"

"It was her," Ron replied in a whisper. "It was Hermione."

Tears rose to Lavender's eyes, and she brushed them away as she nodded. "All the more reason for me to apologize."

Ron nodded awkwardly. "All right, I've gotta go now, I'll tell her to exp—"

"Of course." She turned to walk away—

"Hey, Lav?"

"Yeah?"

There was a moment's pause as she turned her head back toward him. "I'm glad you're all right. You were very brave."

She smiled weakly again. "Thanks, Ron."

"Oh, and did you see Neville cut off that snake's head?" Ron added, gesturing toward where Neville sat eating at one of the rematerialized House tables, surrounded by his admirers, the sword of Gryffindor beside his plate. "Pretty brave, don't you think? The way he stood up to Voldemort like that?"

He saw her turn pink, her hand flying to cover her scar self-consciously.

"He doesn't care about things like that, Neville," Ron said with a nod in his direction. "I shared a dorm with that bloke for six years, and I reckon he's always had a bit of a crush on you."

As she turned even pinker, Ron turned around and strode away, this time successfully making it into the entrance hall and up the marble staircase—which had great chunks blasted out of it—uninterrupted. He was admittedly feeling quite pleased with himself. In truth, Ron had no clue if Neville had ever fancied Lavender, but if they got together because Ron had planted the idea in her head, then he'd have done a good thing, right? Maybe it would even make up a little for how he'd treated both Lavender and Hermione.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he broke into a jog, and he didn't stop running until he'd reached the hospital wing. He was unsure how he was going to get inside the room if Hermione had put up the enchantments like he'd instructed, but that problem was solved when Gonzalez came barreling out of the room, looking harried.

"What's happened?" she asked him the moment she laid eyes on him. "What's going on?"

"Voldemort's dead."

He didn't stay to see her reaction; he was already bolting inside, rushing toward where Hermione sat in her hospital bed, looking frenzied with anxiety. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, but before she could get his name out, he'd engulfed her in his arms. "Voldemort's dead, Harry is fine," he said immediately, the two things that she needed to hear the most. "The rest of my family's fine," he added, and only then did Hermione break into sobs.

He held her as she cried with the magnitude of her relief, uncontrollable sobs wracking her body, and Ron shed tears of his own as he stared over her shoulder at their slumbering daughter in her sphere. "Everything's going to be okay now," he said, again and again. "Rose is gonna to be fine. Our daughter's gonna have a good life, surrounded by people who love her. She won't live in fear or oppression—"

"R-Ron, it's all my f-fault," she sobbed, her body rocking back and forth.

"What's all your fault, sweetheart?" he asked, pulling away from her slightly so he could peer into her watery, red eyes.

Her eyes shot to their daughter then, and Ron understood immediately what she was saying: He had, after all, worried that she'd blame herself.

"No, Hermione, no," he said as she clamped her eyes closed, shaking her head.

"I was reckless, I insisted—"

"No, Hermione, you weren't wrong—"

"But I—"

"Listen to me," Ron said firmly, his hands clamped on her shoulders. "Look at me."

Her eyes shot up to his immediately.

"Harry and I would be dead a hundred times over if it hadn't been for your help. If we hadn't starved to death," he stated, saying his previous thoughts aloud, "we'd have died of exposure. We wouldn't have had any shelter, any clothes, no way of knowing how to destroy Horcruxes—"

"But I didn't have to come here, to Hogwarts, if I'd gone back to Shell Cottage, like you said—"

"—Lavender would be dead," Ron stated bluntly. "She'd have died a terrible, painful death at that bastard Greyback's hand, 'cause I didn't even see them 'til you blasted the fucker off of her. Too much was happening. And at any rate," he added, "there's no use worrying about what-ifs. Our daughter is fine. She's going to be  _fine_ , Hermione, and worrying about what might've happened will just drive you mad."

She sniffled then, wiping her eyes on the sleeves of the Healers' robes she was wearing as her eyes flashed toward her daughter. "For a while," she finally said, her voice tremulous, "while you were gone, I lost hope. I thought that all was lost. I never…" She shook her head as she licked her cracked lips. "I never want to feel like that again."

"You won't have to," he whispered, "I promise you, Hermione. I'm not going anywhere. I'm—I'm gonna get you a ring, a nice one with—with a big diamond, and then I'm gonna get us a nice place, maybe by the sea, like Bill and Fleur—all after we go to Australia and get your parents back, of course."

"You're just trying to make me feel better," she muttered, but she was grinning widely now.

"Yeah, but it's all true. Anything we want, we can have now." He frowned then slightly. "Blimey, guess I've got to look for a job, then, haven't I?"

"But what about school?" Hermione asked instantly. "We've missed out seventh year! Once they repair the school, I'm sure we'll be permitted to return—"

"Hermione, we have a baby now," Ron interrupted reasonably. "Who d'you reckon's going to watch her so we can go back to school for another year? I'm sure your parents will want to get back to their jobs, and I can just hear Mum already:  _'Ronald Weasley, I've raised seven children!'_ " he said in a fair imitation of his mother's voice, "' _I'm not about to start over because you insisted on whipping out your wand! You made your bed and now you have to lie in it, young man!'"_

"Whipping out your wand?" Hermione repeated, unable to keep the hilarity out of her voice.

"Yeah, well, I heard her scream that at Fred once when she walked in on him and An—" His voice broke off when he realized what he was saying, and he fell silent as images came to him of Fred amidst the rubble right after he'd died, of Fred lined up in the Great Hall next to Remus and Tonks.

She bit her lower lip, looking guilty, and he knew he'd inadvertently made her feel like her concern for her education was unimportant, trite even. "Anyway," he added hastily, "but I know how important your education is to you, so I'm sure we can work something out." She smiled at him in obvious placation, and Ron felt like he might melt at the adoration in her expression.

There were several minutes of silence as they both watched Rose, and Hermione was just opening her mouth to speak again when someone burst into the room: It was Harry, with Ginny, George, and Ron's mum and dad on his heels.

"Bill's just told me!" Harry said a bit breathlessly; his lip was cracked and bloodied, a large bruise had formed on his cheek, and his glasses were askew as he rushed forward, engulfing both Ron and Hermione as one. His eyes, however, were staring at the sphere, where Rose had just awakened, her small limbs kicking in evident excitement. "Blimey—she's so small! I'm glad she's all right—I'm glad  _you're_  all right, Hermione!"

"Harry!" Hermione sobbed, her tears renewed as she returned his embrace. "I thought—I thought—" She couldn't seem to get it out.

"I know," Harry said, "I know, and I have so much to tell you both…" He glanced over his shoulder: Ron's family was gathered around the baby's sphere, _ooh_ ing and  _ahh_ ing over the tiny new life. "We'll talk later," Harry said hastily. "So Bill said her name is Rose? I think it's brilliant. Congratulations!"

Hermione was grinning from ear to ear now, even as she wiped her eyes on the backs of her sleeves again, attempting to stifle her tears. "I'm so emotional," she complained. "I'm probably just delirious because I'm so tired."

"How's my smallest patient doing?" a voice said, and Ron looked up to see Madam Pomfrey stepping up to where Ron's family crowded around the sphere, a tray of food hovering in the air in front of her; Professor McGonagall was just behind her.

As Madam Pomfrey served sandwiches to Ron, Hermione, and Harry—who tore into them ravenously—Professor McGonagall beamed between the three of them. "I am so proud of the three of you," she said fondly. "As I'm sure Professor Dumbledore would be." She focused between Ron and Hermione then, a small smile tugging up the corners of her lips. "As your mother would no doubt agree, Mr. Weasley, your role in helping Mr. Potter—whatever it is you've been doing under Dumbledore's orders—has outshone any…irresponsibility you may have previously demonstrated."

Behind McGonagall, Ron's mum nodded her agreement, her eyes glassy with tears.

"I would like to extend an invitation to the three of you to return to Hogwarts next year, once the reparations have been completed, of course. Given your situation—," again, she spoke directly to Ron and Hermione as she glanced at their daughter, "—special allowances will be given. Rather than living in the dormitories as normal, you shall be allowed to Apparate home from Hogsmeade after the conclusion of your classes each day—"

"You'll be living at home, at the Burrow, of course," interrupted his mum at the same instant that Harry said, "You can come stay at Grimmauld Place—"

Harry and Ron's mother looked at each other, both in obvious surprise while McGonagall appeared amused. "Whatever your accommodations," she continued, "financial help shall be provided in the event that daycare is required. You should know that this offer is highly unorthodox—Hogwarts School does not ordinarily reward ill-considered frivolity—but given the services you've provided not only to the Wizarding world, but to mankind itself—"

"Rubbish, Minerva, I'll be looking after my granddaughter while my son and daughter-in-law finish their schooling. Their education is very important to them  _both_ ," said his mother firmly, in her best Don't-You-Dare-Argue-With-Me-Ron-Weasley voice.

"As you wish, Molly," said McGonagall affably.

"That's a very generous offer, Professor," replied Hermione humbly. "I, for one, would be delighted to return for our seventh year, and I'm sure Harry and Ron will both consider the offer as well."

"I see you beat me to the punch, Minerva," stated a familiar, deep voice, and Kingsley Shacklebolt strolled into the room; all eyes turned in his direction as if drawn by a beacon of light. "As it happens, I have an offer of my own: As acting Minister of Magic, I require use of some good Aurors. Consider this a job offer." He was staring straight at Harry and Ron.

"R-really?" Ron stammered as McGonagall cut in with, "Really, Kingsley, we discussed this, there's a process, they must complete their education first, and then there's a rigorous training program—"

He met her squarely in the eye. "They've singlehandedly taken down Voldemort, Minerva. What further qualifications do they require? Hermione, you would be a welcome addition as well since we could use someone with your intelligence and levelheadedness, but I made the assumption that you would be more interested in continuing your education—and in spending time with your daughter, of course." His eyes, too, focused on the sphere at Hermione's bedside.

"You assumed correctly, sir."

"Count me in!" Ron said enthusiastically and Harry said, "Yeah, me, too!"

"Wait a second," protested Hermione, who'd finished her meal and placed her empty plate on the nightstand. "Ron, Harry, don't you want to finish school first?"

"Hermione," said Ron, somewhat exasperated, as he turned to her, "the whole  _point_  of school is to prepare you for a job, right? Well, Harry and I have just been offered our bloody dream jobs! Think about it—I could provide for you and Rose, get you a nice house—"

"Yes, but, Ron, I always pictured the three of us graduating Hogwarts together!" She turned to Harry then, beseeching him, "Don't you want to have just one normal school year, Harry? Just  _one year_  where you don't have to worry about Voldemort before moving on to a career? Ginny will be there!"

He perked up visibly at Hermione's last statement, but Ron's mother broke in at that moment: "That's enough for now. I'm sure the boys will consider both your offers carefully, Kingsley, Minerva, but for now, they need their rest. They must be exhausted—we all are."

"Of course," said McGonagall, looking slightly annoyed as she raised her eyebrows at Kingsley, smiling once more at Ron, Hermione, and Harry, and then she swept from the room.

The others said goodbye as well, hugging the three of them in turn, and there were more utterances of congratulations, and "We're so proud of you!" from his father, and even a "I didn't know you had it in you, Ronniekins," from George, which had their mum swatting at him and Ron's ears turning warm. Last to leave was Harry, who hugged them both again and briefly touched Rose's sphere before he headed up to Gryffindor Tower and the bed in which he hadn't slept in almost a year

Madam Pomfrey came back by to check on Ron, Hermione, and Rose, but she said nothing as he climbed into the bed with Hermione rather than using the one next to her. Despite the fact that the sun was now high in the sky, the light streaming in brightly through the windows, Ron was asleep the second his head hit the pillow next to Hermione's.


	25. Epilogue: An Ever After

_Epilogue: An Ever After_

_This segment begins three months later…_

oOo

Hermione yawned groggily as she attempted to focus her bleary eyes. She was disoriented, unsure of her current location. For the briefest instant, she expected to find herself curled up in an uncomfortable hospital bed, but that confused disorientation was gone almost as quickly as it had come.

 _The Burrow._ Of course. After having lived in St. Mungo's for three months straight while her daughter was being observed, they'd finally brought her home. As Hermione rolled over in her familiar bed—it had been brought from her parents' house to replace Ron's older, considerably smaller one—in his attic bedroom, she blinked rapidly against the sunlight streaming in through the window.

As she became completely conscious, her thoughts lingered on the events that had transpired the day before: Her parents—their memories fully restored—and Ron's family had gathered around Rose's sphere as she had been lifted out of it by a Healer, and Ron had cut the umbilical cord as the baby was placed into Hermione's outstretched arms. He'd then wrapped his arms around them both while her mother and Ron's mother had cried. As her daughter with Ron breathed her first breath with fully-developed lungs, it was a beautiful, absolutely perfect moment.

Eight pounds, two-point-six ounces, twenty-one inches long; though Rose had been removed from Hermione's womb three months previously,  _that_  day, August 2, 1998, the day she had been removed from the artificial womb, would be celebrated as Rose's birthday for the rest of her life. Hermione felt slightly regretful by the idea, as it wasn't exactly how she'd envisioned the birth of her first child, but given everything that had been lost in the past several months, and the freedom that had subsequently been gained, it felt selfish, ungrateful to linger over mundane details.

Her daughter was alive, healthy, and loved, and those were the important things.

Hermione's mother and father had been less than thrilled to learn what Hermione had done to protect them, even  _less_  so to learn that her friend from childhood—whom they'd allowed her to visit every summer from the time she was a child—Ron Weasley had impregnated her and married her without their knowledge or consent. They had come around eventually, however, when they'd witnessed the love and tenderness that Ron had displayed toward his wife and newborn daughter.

She knew that there were now no misgivings in her parents' minds concerning Ron's devotion to their daughter and granddaughter. In addition, Molly and Arthur had helped them to understand the key role she'd played in taking down the most powerful dark wizard of all time, and her parents' pride in their daughter was as great as their love.

"Hey, you," a familiar voice said softly, rousing her from her thoughts, and Hermione smiled before she saw him.

"Hi," she whispered, rolling over to face him. Ron was lying next to her on top of the covers, gazing at her with such tenderness in his expression. "What are you doing?"

"Watching you sleep."

She smiled at that. "Where's Rose?" she asked, her eyes shooting to the empty bassinette at their bedside.

"Dad's got her," he said with a grin, and Hermione was reminded abruptly that it was Saturday. Though Mr. Weasley had returned to work at the Ministry, he was home for the weekend—as was Ron. In fact, Kingsley had given Ron a week off to spend with his family. "I've never seen him like this, he's so proud, he won't stop bloody grinning."

"You mean like you?" she teased, and he merely shrugged in reply, not denying it as his grin widened impossibly. She was aware that Ron was enjoying every second of fatherhood, and it suited him quite well: She noted that he was wearing the "Number One Dad" t-shirt that she'd bought him at a Muggle novelty store when she'd been out shopping for baby clothes with her mum last week; her dad and Mr. Weasley both had "Number One Grandpa" t-shirts.

Ron's pride was contagious, and Hermione couldn't help but share in his joy: They'd had their daughter home less than twenty-four hours, and it was all so new, so exciting, and it was exactly what this family needed to move on after burying one of their own a couple short months ago.

Fred's death, as well as the deaths of all the others who'd perished during the Battle of Hogwarts, was a sad tragedy, a striking blow, and it was difficult to say who'd taken it the hardest: George or their mother. George had moved back home, into his old room, having shut down Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes for the time being. Once full of laughter, he now sat in glum silences for hours at a time, only cracking jokes weakly in an obvious effort to make his mother feel better, but he seemed a shadow of his former self.

Mrs. Weasley was prone to bursting into tears at the sight of George, or anything else that reminded her of Fred, for that matter, which made things doubly harder. At least Rose coming home from St. Mungo's had served as a beacon of hope: Some of that light had come back into George's eyes in the presence of his niece, and Mrs. Weasley was smiling again and fussing over the baby.

Hermione's mum and dad—who'd stayed over at the Burrow the previous night—had gone home that morning, but only because the house was so packed, and they desired to give their daughter and son-in-law some time with their newborn daughter. Hermione, of course, had placated them by promising to bring Rose for a full month-long stay before she returned to school at the first of September.

To her utter delight, her parents and Ron's had bonded over the baby, and they had, in fact, made plans to have dinner at the Granger residence that very evening. Mr. Weasley, in particular, seemed thrilled about this arrangement, making widely known his desire to properly examine a Muggle television.

What Hermione didn't know was that Ron would ultimately develop a fascination with television that would far surpass his father's: "Hermione, we've got to get one of these when we get our own place," Ron would declare to her from where he sat in her father's recliner chair, a Hollywood action movie blaring on full blast, much to her mother's chagrin.

In the present, Ron's fingers threaded in hers, and her attention was drawn to the simple but stunning diamond glittering on her ring finger and the wedding band nestled just above it; likewise, her eyes were drawn to Ron's own simple wedding band. Her thoughts lingered briefly on the night that he'd presented it to her; she'd been touched to learn that he'd enlisted Ginny's help, and the two of them had ventured out into Muggle London together. (Ron was slowly but surely becoming more comfortable in the Muggle world, much to Hermione's pleasure, as she felt like she could now share all of herself with him, even her Muggle side.)

"Hogwarts isn't going to be the same without you and Harry," she said after several moments, a statement she'd made a hundred times over the last months. "It won't feel like Hogwarts at all, really."

"We'll see each other all the time," he said gently, the same response he'd given a hundred times.

"I know," she whispered. "Even still. But I suppose I'll have Ginny and Luna to keep me company."

"We'll be together every evening that Kingsley doesn't have me and Harry too late, and on weekends. We won't be any different than any other married couple." He frowned then. "Well, except that we live with my parents—but that won't last long. I spent my first three months' salary on that rock on your finger," he added in a teasing tone, "but maybe after Christmas we can look for a place… Harry reckons we can move in with him at Grimmauld Place, but I'd really rather not listen to him…and—and my sister, thank you very much."

Hermione laughed as she sat up in bed next to him, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Honestly, Ron, they've never been less than discrete. Have _you_ ever heard them?"

"No," he admitted with a grumble, "but still." He paused then: "How do you know they're really…well,  _doing_  anything, anyway? Maybe they're just…you know…holding hands. And snogging."

"Ron, please tell me you're not seriously that deluded. Besides, there's not much that Ginny and I don't share with each other these days—"

"Oi!" Ron protested with a vigorous shake of his head, looking thoroughly disgusted. "I really don't wanna hear about you and  _my sister_ talking about—me and Harry!"

Hermione laughed again. "Ron, you've really got to accept the fact that Ginny and Harry are both sexual—"

"Bloody hell!" He lunged at Hermione then, rolling on top of her as he pinned her arms over her head. Her breathing quickened instantaneously, and the look in Ron's face changed immediately: He'd gone from horrified to lustful in the space of a microsecond. Already, she could feel him hardening in response to their position. She saw him lick his lips as his eyes focused on hers, falling lower, toward the neckline of her v-neck t-shirt. The look in his eyes was positively…hungry, and her core swelled for him instantly.

They'd only made love a handful of times in the past months. They'd practically lived in that hospital, and Hermione had been recovering from her Wizard-style cesarean. Besides that, she was admittedly self-conscious about her body's changes: Though Ron seemed delighted by her new, improved chest-size, she was aware that her stomach wasn't quite the same as it had been before, and her arse practically had its own postal code.

Ron, of course, didn't seem to mind in the least—"I'm a  _bloke_ , Hermione, I'm just bloody thrilled you're letting me do this with you at all," he'd said to her more than once—and was actually quite worshipful of her newfound curves; it was hard to believe now that in her early pregnancy she'd been scarily underweight.

In the present, however, as Ron brought his mouth down hungrily on hers, her insecurities were melted away by the sheer force of her desire. She groaned as she parted her legs beneath him, seeking some relief—

There was a knock on the door. "Hermione?" It was Ron's mother. She'd learned the hard way not to barge into her son's room anymore. "Someone's here to see you, dear!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley! I'll be down in a moment!"

"Merlin's saggy arse," Ron grumbled in obvious frustration as rolled off of her, adjusting himself in his pants. "How many more bloody visitors could there possibly be?"

She sighed in a frustration of her own as she sat up next to him, straightening her clothing. After the  _Daily Prophet_ had shown up yesterday—inexplicably, she, Ron, and Neville were now almost as famous as Harry himself—to report on the welcoming home of their baby daughter, there had been an endless stream of visitors. It seemed that everyone and their owl wanted a glimpse of baby Rose; Molly and Arthur's sitting room was filled with flowers of every variety and an impressive assortment of gifts from well-wishers. Hermione had already donated much of it to different charities, Magical and Muggle alike, and had even asked the  _Prophet_ to report that well-wishes should give to various organizations in lieu of sending a gift, but the owls continued to arrive.

She and Ron descended the stairs together, and when they'd reached the sitting room her eyes were drawn to the banner over the mantle that read "Welcome Home, Baby Rose!" in large, sparkling letters that flashed multiple colors; covering every available surface were various types of plants and flowers, including some potted Dirigible Plumbs from Luna and her father.

Mr. Weasley sat perched on the sofa, feeding Hermione's newborn daughter, who was dressed in one of Molly's hand-knitted outfits. All Hermione could see of the tiny infant was a tuft of bright red hair and a tiny, waving fist. She felt a brief pang at the sight of her daughter feeding from a bottle. That was something else she'd missed out on: the chance to breastfeed her child, as her milk had come in two days after Rose had been removed from her womb.

Hermione consoled herself that she'd preserved as much of her breast milk as she possibly could have, and that was what was currently sustaining her daughter, even if the meager supply wouldn't last long, since she'd stopped lactating after just a few short weeks.

Seated next to Mr. Weasley, seemingly enraptured by the sight of the nursing baby, was Lavender Brown: She looked up timidly at Hermione and Ron as they entered by the room. Standing next to her was Neville, who was also beaming down at the infant, and on Mr. Weasley's other side was Parvati Patil.

"Oh, hey, Ron!" said Neville enthusiastically as Mrs. Weasley entered the room carrying a tray of tea and cakes. "Hi, Hermione!"

"Hi, Neville," they replied in unison as Parvati rose to her feet and hugged them both briefly while Mrs. Weasley served Lavender and Neville tea. "Congratulations!" she squealed, tears in her eyes. "She's so beautiful!" She then turned to look at Lavender, clearing her throat meaningfully.

"Right," Lavender said almost nervously, squeezing her untouched tea cup between two vases that crowded a side table as she, too, rose to her feet. Neville reached out, squeezing her hand in obvious encouragement. "I was wondering if I could speak to you, Hermione? In private?"

Hermione nodded once, indicating that she should follow her into the kitchen. Instead of sitting down at the table, however, she continued straight on out the back door and into the garden, and Lavender followed her wordlessly.

Hermione been expecting this for a while, since Ron had told her about the brief conversation he'd had with Lavender in the Great Hall on that morning three months ago.

Outside, the midday heat was stifling. The sun was high overhead, and the garden had overgrown considerably since Bill and Fleur's wedding the previous summer. Hermione stopped only when she'd reached the makeshift "Quidditch pitch" that Ginny and the boys sometimes used when they had some free time on their hands, which had been quite a while ago.

"I never really  _saw_  Neville before, you know?" Lavender finally said, sounding nervous, breaking the silence as they watched a couple of garden gnomes fighting over what appeared to be an acorn. "Sadly, I never saw  _you_  before, either, and we shared a dormitory for six years. That, I think, is what I regret more than anything: that we never bothered getting to know each other, that we never tried to be friends." She paused as she continued to absently watch the gnomes. "I know I'm not as smart as you—," she touched her scarred face then, "—and now you're the prettier of the two of us—"

"Lavender—"

"But maybe you always  _were_  the prettier one, the worthier one. I suppose my outward appearance now reflects what's on the inside."

"You're not ugly, Lavender," Hermione said quietly, "and you never were, inside or out. We all make selfish decisions at some point or another, and I'm just as responsible for us not being friends. I was just as negligent."

She shook her head. "I promise I'm not seeking your sympathy or your pity, I'm just speaking the truth."

"The truth?" Hermione rounded on the other girl then. "The truth is that you were placed in Gryffindor House for a reason. The truth is that you chose to stay and fight while others fled. You showed bravery while others showed cowardice. You're worthy, Lavender."

"Why are you saying these things to me?" she asked quietly. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"I don't know," Hermione said with a shrug. "Maybe because I'm so happy right now that I couldn't hold any contempt for  _anyone_. But believe me—a year and a half ago I was ready to murder you, if that makes you feel any better."

"I suppose I would've deserved it," Lavender replied with a snort of laughter. "I was a complete hag, wasn't I?"

Hermione merely raised an eyebrow at that.

"Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry—for everything. For what it's worth, it was  _you_  he always wanted, but I'm sure you know that already. Also, you saved my life, and…I can't thank you enough."

"You would have done the same had our situations been reversed," Hermione said dismissively.

Lavender smiled slightly at that, and a silence descended on the two girls.

"So, maybe you'd like to get together sometime?" Lavender said hesitantly. "I…don't really know what you like to do for fun, but maybe when you're up to it we could have a girls' night out together or something? We can do whatever you'd like."

Hermione smiled, feeling appreciative of the effort her former dorm mate was making. "Sure, that would be nice."

"Great!" she replied a little too enthusiastically. "Well, I guess I'd better get back…"

"Oh, right." The two walked back toward the house in silence, and she and Lavender shared a somewhat awkward hug before she floo'ed away with Parvati and Neville.

"What in the blazes was that all about?" Ron asked when they'd left, even though she knew that he already knew. He was sitting in the spot that Mr. Weasley had so recently vacated, holding Rose's tiny body gently against his shoulder, attempting to burp her. His hand was so wide that it almost covered her entire back.

"Well, Won-Won," Hermione replied with a sly grin, "it appears as if Lav-Lav and I are going to be bestest fwiends."

He broke into a chortle at that, and his laughter was contagious.


End file.
